


Just Blame it on Me

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Music Store, Harry Potter Guitar Player, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-11-12 12:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18011210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a music store. A music store and a man. A music store and a man and an opportunity. A music store, a man, an opportunity, and a small but problematic crush that no one is good at navigating.





	1. Chapter 1

They had _one_ agreement, Abe and Draco. One agreement that was the central tenet of both their friendship and their business partnership. Abe could always rely on Draco for almost anything. Needed an unexpected cheque cut for a sum that would make most people quiver in their loafers? Draco was on it. Deal with the amp company that kept giving Abe the run around about why their commission prices had suddenly increased fifteen per cent? Draco would be on the phone for as long as it took. Pick up his sister from the airport so that her no-good boyfriend didn’t have the chance to leave her stranded? He could rent the most flash red sports car and dress in his best suit, kiss her on the cheek as he dropped her off and make the douchebag at the window wonder who the handsome blonde she’d showed up with could possibly be.

He would do whatever the man needed. It’s what friends were for. In return, Draco never, under _any_ circumstances, had to be on the sales floor.

“Draco, I promise, this is the only time I will ever do this to you,” Abe whined into the phone. “I will deal with the paystubs for a month. _Two months_ . Please, mate. You’re my last hope.”  
  
“Oh, dear lord. _Fine._ I’ll stop by and make sure Marco doesn’t burn the place down.”  
  
“Well,” Abe said hesitantly. “That’s...that’s the thing, Draco. Marco isn’t there either.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Draco shouted down the receiver. “What do you _mean_ Marco isn’t there.”  
  
“Marco is sort’ve...here,” Abe replied miserably.  
  
Draco sighed, rubbed his temples, but was already standing up and pulling on his coat. It was hardly a surprise, the way those two had been circling each other this month, but being right about his best friend’s taste in men was poor comfort when he knew he was going to be surrounded by customers for the next five hours. Five, because at least at that point, he could fake some emergency and close the shop early with one of those kitschy sharpie written signs he saw all the time on other people’s doors.  
  
“So let me get this straight,” Draco said, retrieving his keys and locking the door behind him. He waited for the lift while leaning on the wall, hating the wall sconces as usual, angry at the blandness of the carpet beneath his feet.  
  
“Draco, don’t start.”  
  
“You, my ever reliable business partner, front-man of the best investment I’ve ever made, manager _extraordinaire_ ,” Draco drawled. “That manager found a way to get stuck on the Isle of Wight over the weekend. In the middle of the winter. And you just so _happen_ to have our assistant manager with you?”  
  
“Are you done?” Abe replied. Even his voice sounded mortified.

Draco laughed.”Yeah, I guess so. But just let me tell you...my father will be hearing about this in the quarterly meeting.”   
  
“Oh god, I hope not,” Abe chuckled. “He’d die of shock. I can basically hear him now. _But isn’t Marco a_ MAN?”

Draco roared with laughter as he started his car and let his phone switch to handsfree. “Go enjoy your free day, you arse. I’ll try not to bankrupt us before the day is out.” 

“Just don’t let Al into the guitar room and you’ll be fine. Draco?” Abe muttered gently. “I really am sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“But we have a deal.”  
  
“Abrahim. It’s. Fine.”

* * *

 

Harry was at a loss for what he was going to do with the day and it was seriously stressing him out. He _needed_ to go look for a job. He just didn’t want to. Every day was the same story; get up, hand out resumes, eat a chicken sandwich in a cafe, hand out more resumes, go home to make dinner. He had to find something soon, or he’d go insane.

Ron and Hermione, best friends that they were, had been very calm about his decision not to enter the Air Force. They had no right to be calm about anything at all. He’d told them in a terrible way. At their leaving tea, with all their teachers standing around holding flutes of champagne, all of them dressed in the fanciest Dress Uniforms that their posh private school could imagine. It had been the entirely wrong time to blurt out that he had, over the last two weeks, changed the entire trajectory of his five-year plan.  
  
Hermione Granger, math genius and language guru, was very big on ‘Five Year Plans’. She had made Ron and Harry start making them the second they had determined that they _were,_ in fact, friends. Ron’s had changed a lot over the years; as he determined that he hated a subject, or that he wasn’t actually going to make it onto premier league football, he made changes to what he was ‘sure’ he was going to be great at when he finally got out of Hogwarts. Harry’s plan had always stayed the same.

“Air Force,” he would say. “Like my dad. Going to go help civilians, just like him.”  
  
It was easy enough to say, especially when your entire school knew that you were the miraculous survivor of a wartime tragic love tale that had been splashed around the papers. It sold better than being the gangly, unwanted baby of a couple that was too young and then died. Discovering that he had not been unloved had changed the trajectory of his life. The letter to Hogwarts Academy all those years ago had been the rather a shock; a full scholarship, set up in the name of his parents, and a full ride to attend a preeminent private school where they had both gone. His name was on wings in the library, his father had a plaque in the upper halls, and his mother’s face smiled out at him from the common room in his dormitory. The parents who had loved him so much were heroes, both within the school and within the families who had been going there for generations.

Since the day he’d suddenly learned too much about his family, he’d never looked back. Now, though, at seventeen and with an entire future ahead of him that he’d never been foolish enough to count on? It seemed too simplistic, short-sighted. Childish.

So, he decided not to follow ‘ _The Plan_ ’.

Which would have been great had he had a _backup_ plan, an alternate? That had been the downside of the Hermione Five Year Plan Plan model. She’d not followed through with the boys to make sure they had choices.

Which was how he now lived on a couch in her flat, ignoring the fact that he could hear _everything_ through the too-thin walls and pretending every day that he was looking for work. They were being patient with him, but the fact remained that their newly formed, adult lives were being cramped by his presence in a way that had never happened at school. No one needed to say it to make it true.

He threw on his last clean button up and ran a passing hand through his hair; yet another reason to get a job. He needed a haircut and he refused to use his parent's money to pay for something so trivial. As a result, his hair was currently more unruly than it had ever been. What had once been a fashionable sort of undercut flop was now just a chaotic mass of curls. He pretended to look Classic Rock, but he probably just looked like a ruffian.

He didn’t exactly have a _purpose_ when he left the house, at least not one that contained anything more detailed than _‘leave before Hermione came home for lunch with a new batch of classified ads’_. So, he sauntered into the city, hit Soho, and realised how much had changed in a year. Normally, wandering the neighbourhood would normally have been dangerous for his pocketbook. It was hard, however, to spend zero pounds on useless things and expensive coffee.

After an hour spent in three bookstores, a shop that had recently gone from selling hair accessories to vintage records, and the weird new popup that seemed to be trying to market bottles of scented air, Harry found himself in front of the chic little music store that he’d always been afraid to enter when he’d come down this street before. Music people scared him; there was an arrogance about them that unsettled him. He’d once managed to go into one of those chain guitar shops, with the full intention of buying himself a new guitar. He’d fled after asking a question about an amp that had been met with indignant animosity and arched eyebrows. Guitar people could be mean and Harry Potter did not enjoy being looked down on.

Since he had only ever played in the dark hidden corners of the castle, on an ancient piece of shit with plastic strings that constantly went out of tune, he knew very little about the technical side of music. He supposed he’d gotten pretty good, using books of old Beatles tunes and _Learn to Play the Guitar; an introduction for kids, Level 1_ , which he’d taken out from the Hogwarts library and conveniently never returned. Still, only Ron had ever heard him play and that had been by accident. It made it hard to justify the pain of trying to buy a guitar.

Today though, he had at least an hour before he was going to let himself go home. More importantly, he was having a hard time. Surely he could justify something like a guitar with his parent's money; ultimate happiness had to be the goal of inheritance, right? He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The melodic bells that went off were very appropriate but they made Harry want to cower behind the tower of amps he found himself faced with just inside the door.  
  
“Hello,” a posh voice called loudly from the back. Harry braced himself.

A tall man with staggeringly white blonde hair came out from behind the counter as the door shut behind him.

“Er, hey,” Harry replied.

“Anything I can help you with?” the man asked pleasantly. For some reason, he seemed slightly amused.

“Just...um, just looking around,” Harry mumbled.

“Okay, well, let me know if there’s anything I can help you with. You’re my first customer today. Which, let me tell you, is pretty hilarious, all things considered.” The man chuckled and Harry stared at him. He failed to see how having no business at all was funny.  
  
“Er, right. Well. Yeah. Thanks,” he responded.

“Oh, well, you see,” the man began to explain, unprompted. “I’m the owner. I don’t normally work in the shop but my manager decided to get stuck in the Isle of Wight with my assistant manager, which we all predicted would happen—well, no, not the Isle of Wight I suppose. That would have been a ridiculous prediction, but anyway. Now…oh god, I’m babbling, aren’t? Forgive me. I’ve had far too much coffee today. Al made a  whole pot and it’s just the two of us and it’s been dead in here, so...you do not care about this. Apologies, I’ll leave you to it.”

Harry surprised himself by laughing; something about this man, obviously completely out of his element and thrown off by his day, soothed his nerves. He took in the small silver earring that was peeking out from the man’s cartilage, embraced the white t-shirt beneath a tight blazer, and enjoyed the bright teal of the man’s trousers.

He smiled.

“I’m Harry,” he offered, for no apparent reason, extending his hand. The man smiled in return.

“Draco,” he supplied, returning the shake. “So, seriously. Now that I’ve officially wasted five minutes of your time, is there something I can help you with?”  
  
Harry looked around the shop, eyes fixated suddenly on the wall of guitars. “Guess I’m looking for a guitar,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing fancy. Acoustic. The one I learned on was absolute shit so I honestly just want to…”

He let his sentence fall out of the bottom as he realised that he was following Draco closer towards the wall. He didn’t think that he’d actually planned on staying inside, let alone looking at an instrument.  
  
“They’re all here, free standing. If you want to play some, you can pull them down and put them on the stands in there,” Draco was explaining.  
  
“I don’t...I can’t,” Harry paused and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m not buying one today.”  
  
Draco grinned at him. “No one is standing here pressuring you. Instruments are like parts of your body. There’s not much point in me trying to convince you which one you should buy. I’ll be back there if you need anything.”  
  
Harry laughed again. “You sell a lot with this strategy?”  
  
Draco turned back around with another grin, his long blonde bangs flopping forward into his eyes. “I told you, Harry,” he quipped. “I don’t normally sell _anything_ , at all. Have fun.”

* * *

Draco moved much more quickly back to the back room than he’d left it the first time. Al was still standing over the boxes of shipping orders that needed to be processed, looking as useless as he always did.    
  
“Everything alright?” he asked dully, seeing Draco in a state of slight exasperation. Draco was surprised Al even noticed, given that slight exasperation was his usual state around him. 

“I think I may have accidentally flirted with our only customer,” Draco relented. Al snorted. “Though in my defence,” Draco amended. “He’s really cute.”    
  
“Some days, I really wonder how the hell I ended up working with the four gayest men in England,” Al teased. “Do you want me to go deal with him? You know, because of the whole ‘moratorium on men’ thing?”    
  
“I really shouldn’t tell Abrahim anything, should I?” Al shrugged. “No, I’m going back out there.”  
  
Draco lifted a clipboard from the desk beside him and started reading the list. Al arched an eyebrow at him.   
  
“What? I am. You know,” Draco sniffed, raising his chin and trying to call forth all his public school pride and snottiness; he knew he was not believable but still. “In a minute,”

Four minutes later, he decided he should probably be back on the floor if only to stop Al from ending up in the guitar room. He stood up way too straight and tried to remind himself that he was, in fact, in the middle of a moratorium. He’d made Abrahim swear to slap him, fully and physically, if he managed to mess around with anyone his family hadn’t met and preapproved. As much as Draco hated to admit it, he was on thin bloody ice with his father. He—quite literally—could not afford to piss him off any more. He cleared his throat and forced himself not to consider the extremely fit nature of the curly-haired, bespectacled, nervous-around-guitars Harry that he was going to find in the next room.  
  
He failed miserably when he found him sitting in the booth, gently strumming. Though Draco couldn’t hear through the glass, he could  _ see  _ him, sitting there with Draco’s favourite guitar, the red oak Seagull classic. He’d had his choice of all the big fancy brands on the wall, had ignored the Fender’s and the Gibson’s, and had picked up a no-name guitar with more character in one fret than any of the mass-produced pieces. Draco was impressed. Perhaps even a little enamoured. He needed to find another reason to talk to this Harry bloke.

Harry, the mysterious brunette whose shoes were expensive but scuffed beyond appropriate use, with a name brand button-up that was clearly several years old, and whose hair had needed cutting for at least a month. The Harry who’d made Draco, who very rarely showed emotion to strangers, smile and chuckle and share unnecessary information. The Harry who Draco had been pretty sure could  _ not  _ actually play the guitar. 

Quietly, without making a fuss, Draco hit the record button in the booth, sending the sound out into the shop and also onto the hard drive on the desk. He didn’t know what possessed him to do it; in fact, he was pretty sure it was borderline illegal. He did it anyway. He also stood there and listened for the next five minutes. He didn’t claim to be an expert by any means; owning a music shop did not give him any qualifications that the average listener didn’t also have. But this bloke. There was something about him. 

He was  _ good _ . Really good.

When he stopped a short time later, stood up, stretched, and walked out of the booth, Draco only just had time to switch off the recording devices before he opened the door with the guitar proffered in front of him. Though it wasn’t clear that the intention was there, Draco reached out and took the guitar from his hands. He cleared his throat. 

“Interesting choice. This isn’t a popular brand,” Draco muttered, turning the guitar in his hands.  
  
Harry shrugged. “Liked the sound when I strummed it. Rich. Colour’s nice too. They’re Canadian, right?”    
  
Draco nodded.    
  
“Wish I could take it home today,” Harry replied with an embarrassed shrug.

“I, uh,” Draco was suddenly very embarrassed. “You sounded pretty great. You play professionally somewhere?”    
  
Harry laughed. “Never even in front of my flatmates.”    
  
“That’s ridiculous,” Draco said seriously. “You’re...I mean, you’re always welcome to come play here. Until you can take it home, that is.”    
  
Harry smiled shyly. “I’d be embarrassed. I only did it today because no one could hear me—wait, how did  _ you  _ hear me?”    
  
Draco scrubbed the back of his neck; he hadn’t thought he was going to have to fess up so quickly. He unplugged the thumb drive from the booth. “I didn’t mean to do something creepy. It’s the only way to bring the sound through the speakers. You can take this. Go in there and listen to yourself. You should be submitting it to the producer I work with. He’s not big, but he’d definitely take it.”    
  
Harry laughed again, but he did reach out and take the stick from Draco’s, hesitantly looking behind him in the booth.    
  
“I think maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Harry said eventually, gently placing the stick on the windowsill of the booth behind him. “Thanks a lot, Draco. Hope it gets busier.”    
  
“Good  _ lord _ , I hope not,” Draco exclaimed. “Hope you reconsider.”    
  
“Won’t,” Harry chuckled. “Consider that thing your property now. Use it to remember me by, as I sell my soul to corporate life...I’ve realised after playing that absolutely beautiful instrument that I’m going to need a paycheck. Can’t justify living off my parents anymore.”    
  
He smirked as he gave a half wave, even though Draco’s head was reeling at the statement. How could a throwaway comment about from a stranger have rung so true for his own life? His entire being was demanding he stop the man who was walking away. Screw the moratorium on men. He was going to see Harry again. Draco didn’t care that for now, he had no surname, no permission, and zero idea how why exactly he cared. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I've already completely mentally checked out from work right before break? Three posts in two days? Yup. I am doing no adulting right now...

There were so many months that Harry could barely remember. He’d had a more interesting life than most, having spent much of sixth form in witness protection from his parents' killers. If even  _ he  _ had parts of his life that just disappeared from his memory, he wondered how most people remembered themselves at all.

That April, however, stuck in his mind like it was being live-recorded and played back to him every night. Every day, he went into the music store. Every day, he’d spend ten minutes playing the guitar, which he’d nicknamed Hazel. Every day, either Al or Marco would try and persuade him to record a demo. 

Then, at about noon, Draco would turn up with coffee for everyone. They’d spend the afternoon in the shop, chatting and flirting—flirting that became more and more intentional every day. Harry just let himself freely be attracted to the tall, regal blonde, with zero expectations and no hangups. He knows, for many reasons, Draco is proper posh. He doesn’t let his hope get away from him.  

The next thing he knows, he seems to have acquired a part-time ‘ _ we’d hire you full time if we had the money’ _ job, where he mostly spends his time stocking the shelves and organizing the sheet music for Marco.  When he meets the infamous Abe during his second week of daily music store lurking, he immediately declares him the perfect candidate for fame and shoves him in the booth against his will. Harry records three covers, let’s Draco take the new memory stick to his producer friend, and promptly forgets all about it. 

By mid-May, he is a staple in the shop. He’s decided to stop flirting with Draco, who rarely returns his advances these days and clearly has too much on his mind to be confronted directly about any sort of relationship even if Harry could work up the courage. The crush will stay a crush, despite the fact that Harry is pretty sure he’s at least a  _ little  _ bit gay. He is jealous of the beauty that is Marco and Abe’s fledgeling relationship, and yes, it hurts a little bit to like Draco and also know that nothing is going to come of it. Still, he decides that Draco has given no sign that he’s interested, so he drops it.

It’s a Wednesday when it happens. 

“Mail for you, Potter,” Abe declared as Harry walked into the shop. Draco, who is already perched on the counter, snorted at Abe’s announcement.    
“You’re getting mail here now?” Draco retorted, grabbing the proffered envelope out of Abe’s hands and ripping it open.    
  
“That’s a federal offence,” Harry protested half-heartedly, leaning on the cash counter as Draco read the letter beside him.    
  
“That’s only true in movies,” Al interjected.

“Shut up, Al,” the other three chimed at once. He huffed and walked away just as the paper fell from Draco’s hands onto Harry’s head.   
  
“Harry,” he whispered. “I hope you’ve saved up enough to buy Hazel today.”

* * *

 

That night when Draco got home, he immediately flopped onto his bed and shoved his head into his pillow. 

“You’re an idiot,” he said to his empty apartment, finding it dissatisfying when the sound was muffled. He lifted his head and tried again. “A huge, fucking  _ idiot _ , Draco Malfoy. An idiot who’s gone and fallen for a dweeb who does not like you.” 

The month had been confusing. Confusing and complicated and full of far too much time negotiating around his father’s wishes. Naturally, he’d begun to spend more time than was strictly necessary at the music shop; he had other things that needed to be done, but none of them brought him any comfort. Certianly nothing close to the wonder that was listening to Harry play. Watching Harry brush his hair from his eyes. Letting Harry stand just a  _ little  _ bit too close to him to be decorous.   
  
He sat up and pulled off his stupidly tight trousers, threw his shirt over his head, and snuggled down into the duvet. He’d just decided not to get out again until Christmas when the door to his room flew open and his flatmate came stomping in, kicking off her shoes and throwing herself onto the bed beside him.    
  
“Shit day,” she declared. “Tell me something nice.”    
  
“You have truly remarkable eyebrows,” he mumbled, knowing how pathetic he sounded. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”    
  
“Pansy, I am an idiot,” he moaned.    
  
“Well, yes. But in regards to what this time?”   
  
“Harry got the record deal,” he announced. “He’s recording in Bristol. Starting next week. And today, I went on and on about how he should leave as soon as possible so he could get settled in.”    
  
“Oh Draco,” she said, petting his head. “You pathetic little gay. I’m assuming you realise that this was the perfect opportunity to tell him you are completely besotted by him?”    
  
“Yes thank you, Pansy.”    
  
“So do we now need to go buy a plane on daddy’s card so you can visit him.”    
  
“Fuck you,” he moaned, dragging the duvet over his head.

“You know you don’t want that, darling,” she teased, pulling the cover off his head. “Does your father know how much time you’ve been spending at his least favourite enterprise.”    
  
“Fortunately for me, he’s quite distracted at the moment.”    
  
“Oh, I am aware, trust me,” she sighed.   
  
“What was so shit about your day?” Draco asked. He was suddenly quite concerned. Pansy’s days not going well usually impacted him in some way shape or form, and usually because it had something to do with how long he was going to have to spend at family dinners on Sunday. 

“Well,” she began hesitantly. “I’m not sure I should tell you right now.”    
  
“Pans,” he warned.   
  
“The vote was today. They’re going ahead with the plan.” 

“With my father as head?”    
  
“‘Fraid so, darling.”    
  
“Well shit.” 

“Yup.” 

* * *

Bristol was lonely. And cold. Cold and wet and lonely and Harry was not actually thrilled to be there. Sure, it was fun to be able to playthe guitar and, technically, he was working because Abe’s cousin had hooked him up. Things were, for all intents and purposes, pretty great. If he’d dared complained to anyone at all about how bored he was, they would have mocked him mercilessly.   
  
The problem, he was pretty sure, was that this may not have ever been his dream. Learning the frigging guitar had only been an escape; an avoiding of all the stuck up private school kids who whispered about him in the corridors and pinned shit to his friends’ bags when they weren’t looking. An attempt to ignore the fact that he was actually sort of shit at school, despite the fact that his teachers dragged him through all the middle set classes so he could help them play football. Harry had never meant to get good at the instrument, let alone have people pay him for it. 

When they introduced him to ‘his band’ three weeks into recording, he decided he was just going to have to suck it up and go along for the ride. It was classic Harry Potter problems; once other people were involved, he figured he had to stick with it for the sake of the other people. 

It was a very annoying quality. 

The first album dropped in November, just in time for Christmas sales. All his Hogwarts alumni bought it, and he figured that was where it was going to stop. There would be a niche market of people buying it for the sake of ‘that lovely boy whose parents were killed in that horrific attack’ and he could go back to his nice, quiet, destinationless life. 

He was not at all prepared for the alternative.


	3. Chapter 3

Three years later

 

_ Harry Potter, of the famed Potters and Prose indie group, has announced his retirement after three years with the band. Frontman and lead singer says “it’s just time”, stating personal goals and satisfaction with his current accomplishments as his reasons for leaving the band. Though fans will no doubt be disappointed, the relative newcomer to the music scene is well known for his sudden decisions—just last year, he replaced lead drummer, Corey M, with a friend of his from school. Lovegood United has now announced a solo album, though the genre is not yet confirmed. Potter refused to comment on what life holds for him next but expressed gratitude for the opportunities he’s had so far.  _

Draco snorted and threw the paper back onto the bed, throwing himself back to the sheets and curling into himself. Beside him, Astoria stirred.    
  
“What’s so funny about the world devastation today, dear?” she mumbled sleepily, moving to rest on his arm with a small smile. Her hair, still golden-nearly-amber in the morning sun, was a tangled mass beneath him and it tickled his forearm. 

He grinned down at her. “Nothing exciting,” he answered. “Just saw the latest on that Potter bloke. Apparently, he’s retiring.”    
  
“Wait, that musician you discovered?”    
  
Draco laughed. “‘Discovered’ is a pretty kind word for selling his early recording to the highest bidder. He  _ sued  _ me for theft if you’ll recall?”    
  
" _He_ didn't, his friends did. Besides, he paid you back when he made his first million. The whole thing was really strange. Who retires from fame? He must be crazy.”    
  
“I don’t know,” Draco sighed, wrapping his arms around her and settling in, her hand in his as she curled to meet him. “Don't you have days when you wish the upper echelon had no idea who you are?” She wrinkled her nose at him and he laughed. “I’ll take that as a no then. God, darling, you are going to be utterly miserable. What are you doing with me?”    
  
“Oh, well it is the most romantic story,” she teased. “My father told your father that I was ready to get married and suddenly, we were ‘betrothed’. It was quite the scandal.”    
  
“I think the  _ scandal  _ may have come from your sister exposing the fact that we were already dating behind their backs.”    
  
“Ah,” she giggled. “Right. Always forget that part.”    
  
He pulled her hand up to look at it and frowned.   
  
“No, don’t start again. It’s beautiful.”    
  
“There’s something off about it still,” Draco complained.    
  
“Shut up and go get ready. You’ll be late.”    
  
“God damned council meetings. I should just sell the building. Abrahim and Marco leave in a week anyway. Why am I doing this?”    
  
“Because out of all your holdings the music shop is irrationally your favourite? Because regardless of what you try to tell your father, you’re secretly an artist who loves to bum around in old vinyl? Because you couldn’t bear to lose the only little, eclectic business you still have? Because—”   
  
“Yes, yes,” Draco interrupted. “Alright. I’m going. I’m also stopping at the jeweller on my way home, though.”    
  
She laughed him out of the room. 

 

* * *

Harry hadn’t been at the flat in nearly three months. His manager had been trying to convince him to sell it for the better part of a year, but since Harry had always harboured this plan in the back of his mind, he’d stubbornly insisted on paying for it and the horrendously expensive property taxes the whole time he’d been on tour.

It was smaller than he remembered. 

He dropped his bags and threw his guitar in the stand—he hated leaving the poor thing cooped up in its case unnecessarily—and collapsed onto the only-slightly stale sofa. When he woke up four hours later, it was to an insistent knock, which turned into a rib-crushing hug from Ron the second he opened the door.   
  
“Man did I  _ miss  _ you,” Ron boomed, clapping him on the back. “You’ve been gone  _ forever _ .”    
  
“You’re starting to sound like your three-year-old,” Harry teased, hugging Ron back. He was mostly joking. He’d missed Ron too. “It was the shortest one yet.”   
  
Ron released him only to slap him across the head, then toed off his shoes and walked with a full bag of groceries into the kitchen. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry protested.    
  
“Course I do. You never remember to even get  _ milk  _ on your way home when you get back from the road. I’m making you a vindaloo. Hermione’s at her parents with the kids, and I brought beer. Go unpack, you’ll feel better.”    
  
Harry let out an exasperated sigh, but he followed his very demanding friend’s instructions. Ron had sorted out how to take care of Harry long before Harry had ever worked it out himself. Having kids had only made the man more protective, insufferable, and interminably  _ right _ . There really wasn’t much point in fighting it. 

An hour later, two beers in and sat in front of the TV with some terrible Kung Fu movie turned low, he and Ron were full and chatting, as though no time at all had passed.   
  
“So I see that the world has not taken your announcement well,” Ron said finally. 

Harry shrugged. “We knew they weren’t going to. I don’t care. I’m happy.”    
  
“Are you?” Ron asked sceptically. 

“Yes,” Harry replied firmly. “It was never my plan. It was fun for a bit. Maybe even great. But I don’t want to be like...some forty-year-old ex-rock star playing casinos.”  

Ron laughed. “You know I love your music, mate, but I hardly think you were going to be hot on the casino scene. So. What’s next then?”    
  
Harry grinned manically. “Absolutely no idea. But at least I’m not broke this time.”    
  
“Oh for the love of...fucking help us, godly entity. We’re back to having a bored Harry Potter on our hands.”    
  
“Shut it. It’ll be fine.”    
  
“Did you end up hearing back from that man at the—” Ron cut himself off as Harry glared at him. He put his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Sorry. Just asking, that’s all.”    
  
“I... I don’t think I really liked him anyway.”    
  
“Yeah,” Ron said sympathetically. “Don’t imagine the road was the best place for a romantic serial monogamist who also happens to be gay, was it?” 

“I’m not sure the gay part had much to do with it, but no. Frederick is nice enough, though?”

“A ringing endorsement for any relationship. Catch me before I  _ swoon.” _

Harry stared at his glass for a moment, no response springing to mind. “Shit,” he said eventually. “We'd better get going or we'll be late for that thing.”

Ron clapped his hands together and leapt up. 

“That's right! ” he exclaimed. “I'm going to change. Hermione is going to meet us there.”

“I already regret inviting you two!” he called after Ron with a chuckle.

* * *

It was a quarter to nine on a Tuesday evening. Normally, Draco would have been completely wrapped up in a blanket, sitting in front of the fireplace with a glass of pinot and a book, while Astoria watched some mystery or home decor show near him. He was extremely unhappy about that he isn’t there now.   
  
“Can we _please_ go home?” he whined as Pansy pulled his arm. 

“Home to what?” she retorted. “Your precious snuggle muffin isn’t there, and you are absolutely not abandoning me in my hour of need.”    
  
“God, why are you so fucking dramatic. More importantly, why on  _ earth  _ did I decide to stay friends with you.”  
  
“Because you are far smarter than your father gives you credit,” she replied, patting his arm as he glared. “Oh, hush, darling. You’ll love this place.”    
  
“If we ever get inside,” he complained, shivering. 

As he whined, the queue suddenly shuffled forward constantly. Five minutes later, he was inside, with a checked coat and a glass of deliciously overpriced cherry liqueur he’d made Pansy buy him immediately. Begrudgingly, he had to admit the exhibit  _ was  _ pretty glorious.

London did pop-up bullshit all the time; it was in the DNA of the city to get over-enthusiastically interested in the most niche of niche art. This one, however, Draco felt had actually captured some imagination. Everything, from the tables to the screws holding up the picture frames, was made of colourful glass. It gave the room an ethereal shimmer that highlighted its over-the-top delicate nature, but the people sitting on the glass formed chairs made it all seem just a tiny bit impossible. 

Draco was enamoured.   
  
“I told you,” Pansy smirked, tugging her pale yellow dress back down.    
  
“Shut up,” he replied, sipping his drink and slowly sweeping his head back and forth to change the light. “Why are you wearing that thing if it can’t be bothered to remain a dress.”    
  
She smiled at him churlishly. “Because, darling boy, we are not all  _ permanently  _ off the market, and this place is just  _ teeming  _ with part-time celebrity.”    
  
“Isn’t this the third time you’ve come?” He arched his eyebrow at her and she pinched him on the arm. He yelped, she cackled, and he felt himself ease into their comfortable roles as best friends for far too long.

“Come on,” he relented. “Let’s go find you some lovely tail before I’m forced to set you up with Daphne.” 

She mock shuddered at him but took his arm. As they floated about the room, Draco felt the eerie presence of being watched. He hadn’t yet seen any of his father’s cronies, none of his cousins or family ‘business’ partners, so he couldn’t account for it. Finally, with Pansy luridly laughing and clutching at the arm of a desperate looking Real Estate something-or-other, he made excuses to head to the bar and get a refill of his drink. 

As he waited, a gentle hand touched his elbow and made him startle.    
  
“Sorry,” a jovial voice replied. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”    
  
“Then maybe don’t grab strangers,” he returned, turning to face his assailant and startling even further. 

Sure, the face was a bit more tired, the glasses now housed in more expensive frames. The hair had definitely been cut by someone who actually knew what they were doing with curly hair, and Draco was positive those eyebrows had been professionally shaped. Gone were the scuffed shoes and the worn button up, though that was hardly surprising. What  _ was  _ surprising was the complete lack of style change; the clothes may be new and expensive, but beneath them remained the shy, awkward man who’d just wanted to play a pretty guitar.

“Potter and Prose,” Draco smirked. Harry flinched slightly, and Draco felt a tiny thrill of success. He didn’t mean to be like this, callous and a little bit cold, but it came so naturally and brought him so much joy.

“Haha very funny,” Harry replied, holding out a hand behind him and taking Draco’s drink. “Don’t mock. My face is plastered all over the papers right now, washout that I am.” 

“Retired, I thought,” Draco teased, pulling his glass out of his hand. The comment gained him a small smile. “Or do you just have another small business to sue?” he retorted.   
  
Immediately, Harry’s face changed; his expression fell, his cheeks grew red, he could not meet Draco’s eye. He cleared his throat and gestured for the bartender behind them. Draco felt a tiny pang of guilt that was washed away by the tiny seed of anger that still housed itself in the segment of his mind where he had shoved all mentions of Harry Potter.

“I...I had been meaning to come to see if I could...do you still have the shop?” Harry exhaled loudly. “No, that’s… don’t answer that. I just wanted to say that I was sorry. For all that bullshit after the first album. I didn’t know they were going to—Seamus was my manager and he filed the papers before telling me. I never would have—”

“Hey,” Draco interrupted with a laugh. “Can you please take a breath before you pass out? It’s really fine. I was kidding. I’m...well, let’s just say I am both used to being irrationally sued and also completely over it. It was a drop in the bucket.”    
  
“He sued you for half a  _ million  _ pounds.”    
  
“Yes, well.” Draco felt his own face heat slightly.  He sometimes forgot to hide the fact that he didn’t really get the ‘every man’. “Um, anyway. Forgiven. Water. Bridges. Etcetera.” 

“That’s incredibly decent of you and for some reason I’m suspicious.”    
  
“You should be,” Draco laughed, winking at Harry. “I’m never described as decent.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Pansy striding toward them and braced himself. “I apologise immensely for what is about to happen.”    
  
“Draco, darling!” Pansy cried. “How dare you abandon me to come and secretly talk to your friend. Were you even considering introducing me?”    
  
“Pansy, Harry. Harry, Pansy,” Draco replied dutifully. “I would suggest you run before she causes you irreparable pain and suffering.”   
  
Pansy laughed what Draco referred to as her ‘fish hook’ laugh, a deep raspy thing that made Draco cringe and made most men swoon. Interestingly, Harry’s face remained impassive, almost amused at the sudden arm looped around his own.   
  
“Pleasure, Pansy,” he said decorously. “I was just getting reacquainted with Mr Malfoy. We only met briefly.”    
  
“Oh you’re sweet,” Pansy teased. “I, of course, know the whole story, Mr PotterProse. This man is my best friend.”    
  
“Then I hope to gain your forgiveness too.”   
  
“Oh my god, listen to him. He sounds like a Jane Austen character,” Pansy laughed, gripping Harry slightly tighter. “Never would have guessed, looking at all those tour photos. Are you actually some sort of gentlemen? Heavens, a dying breed.”    
  
Harry laughed, and instantly, Draco liked him just a little bit more. Pansy was loud and brash, abrasive at the best of times and completely rude at the rest of the time. It took a strong character to appropriately read her humour, to not shy away from her instant physical contact. Clearly, this Potter had chops. Delicately, he removed Pansy’s arm from his own and patted her hand.   
  
“I assure you, I’m not that gentle.” He winked at Pansy, who reeled with laughter. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I might have lost my boyfriend in the glass somewhere.” 

With a gentle wave and a quick collection of two glasses of wine, Harry Potter, of recent fame, disappeared into the crowd.   
  
“Did he just say boyfriend?” Pansy pouted. Draco laughed. “Oh yeah, laugh it off Mr Malfoy. You have a wonderful beard already locked in, pre-approved by your father and perfectly content with a sexless marriage of prestige.” 

The air went out of Draco’s chest; he hadn’t thought of it so succinctly in the three weeks that had passed since he and Astoria had announced their engagement. He felt ridiculous for not realising the simple truth of it earlier. Of course, she was  _ technically  _ a beard. It didn’t matter that she was also a very dear friend and had suggested the arrangement as a way to save them both a bit of face with the families. It didn’t matter that he had lavishly splashed out on three separate rings trying to find the perfect one. It didn’t matter that they had, in fact, tried dating before allowing their parents to think they’d come up with the idea. He felt the bottom fall out of his happiness.    
  
“Draco?” Pansy said, worry in her face as she gripped his shoulder. “Draco, it’s fine. I meant it in a good way! You’ve won! You’ve won the Hogwarts royalty game, Mr Malfoy heir! I’m  _ jealous. _ ”    
  
He shook his head, trying to ground himself to the room and gripped her hand where it rested on him. “Sorry. Mild panic. At some point, Father is going to find out. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”    
  
“Whatever,” she shrugged. “It’s not like he can do anything. Just make it legal, Malfoy, and you’re set. How come you  _ didn’t  _ tell me how gorgeous that Potter was? He went to school with us you know. The papers go on and on about it.”    
  
“What?” Draco snapped. “No, he didn’t. That’s just a media ploy.”    
  
Pansy laughed at him. “No, it’s not. He was in our year, you dolt. You seriously don’t remember him? He came a year late. Though,” she lowered her voice and glanced around surreptitiously. “He  _ was  _ in  _ Gryffindor _ . Stayed in the halls. Guess you two didn’t cross paths often.”    
  
“I was still on Eaton track until I left,” Draco mumbled, still lost in thought, trying to place Potter within the hallowed Hogwarts grounds. 

He couldn’t remember seeing him in any classes, but that was hardly a surprise; he didn’t know half of their year. Anyone in a lower set or on a different post-school path had been wiped from his mind after his fourth year when his mother had suddenly fallen ill. He’d gone home and studied from there until she was better, but by then, he had finished all his courses, had taken over a third of the businesses, and it had seemed pointless to go back just for his leaving year. Pansy had never quite forgiven him.   
  
“Oh yes,” she said darkly. “I forgot, my elite prince. You didn’t associate with the likes of us.” 

He was about to retort when a microphone squeal interrupted his thoughts and they both instinctively turned towards the stage.    
  
“Welcome, all, to another late evening in the Hall of Glass. We are thrilled this evening to have as our live entertainment the frontman of a local talent recently back from a world tour. More importantly, we are told it is to be one of his last performances. Please, give it up for Harry Potter.”

* * *

Harry had no idea why he had agreed to this ridiculous performance; he was meant to be retired. Strictly speaking, he had agreed because of Frederick, who had asked as a favour, and who paid in ways that Harry was...quite fond of. 

But if he removed the sexy blonde German from the equation, then the leaden feeling in his gut as he climbed the temporary stage steps with his guitar felt even more miserable. 

“Thanks,” he said, throwing on his stage persona, shy and a little timid, as he settled onto the stool placed there for him. “Just me tonight, I’m afraid. Gave the band the week off.” The crowd chuckled and Harry relaxed. He knew how to do this. He made a show of tuning up, put on his capo, resettled on the stool. “This first one is a cover of my good friend, Casey Abrams.”    
  
As he strummed out the opening chords of ‘Blame it on Me’, Harry felt himself slip into a familiar discomfort. His voice carried through the weight of the fog, switching almost to autopilot. He knew, technically, that he must be at least okay at this, or else his career would never have taken off. But in the middle of it, even after three years of almost constant tours and album releases, he felt like a fraud. It was most of why he’d left the band; the stage fright, the constant pressure to write, the fact that he was a self-taught acoustic guitarist from nowhere special. 

It all felt like too much.

He played the last few chords and gazed out at the crowd assembled, realising with a painful jolt that this was not a normal gig. The room was small, intimate. There were no lights. He could see every face. 

And he almost immediately locked eyes with Draco Malfoy. 

It was strange to see him again for the first time since May. Well. First time if he ignored the two days in a courtroom that he did not want to be in. Just as with the first day in the shop, seeing him now made Harry feel warm and flustered, slightly surprised at his own reaction. It couldn’t exactly be a crush since he barely knew him, but it was definitely  _ attraction _ .   
  
He watched Draco now, standing with his arms folded beside his tall, beautiful friend in gold, and he knew he needed to play the song. He’d never planned on letting anyone hear it, and yet. 

“This next one,” he said quietly into the mic, clearing his throat for a moment. “This next one is a little self-indulgent. It’s new, so bear with me. For now, it's called ‘The Alternate’.   
  
Draco was decidedly flustered. He had a feeling that he was hiding it pretty well, given that Pansy hadn’t noticed. At least, he was safe while Potter was singing. Safe while Harry, three years older and still shockingly easy to look at, impossible to ignore, serenaded the crowd with words that settled onto Draco’s shoulders like they were emitting themselves from his own mouth. 

_ “I could’ve made it simple, _

_ Didn’t need to use my brain,  _

_ Coulda asked you for your number, _

__ When I asked you for your name.  
  


_ Have we gone anywhere together, _

_ In the other place, the one where we’re in love? _

_ Do you know my favourite colour, my birthday _

__ How I take my coffee, and darling is it always enough?  
  


_ That alternate existence _

_ The alternate track  _

_ There was a chance for us there _

__ But I don’t know how to go back  
  


_ Instead of being brave _

_ I let you slip away  _

_ Got a life I never wanted  _

_ Let my dreams all start to fade _

_  
Now no one understands the fear I’m feeling _

_ Alone despite this famous face _

_ I spend my days wandering the pavement _

_ Just trying to keep a borrowed pace  _

_  
That alternate existence _

_ The alternate track _

_ There was a chance for us there _

_ But I don’t know how to go back.” _

* * *

As the small crowd clapped enthusiastically for the song that they had never heard, Draco excused himself to go to the bathroom. He sat on the top of a toilet and stared at his hands. He felt like he was going insane. He blamed Pansy entirely; without her careless quip, he was certain that he would not currently be reconsidering his sham engagement, questioning his morality, or rapidly becoming fixated on green eyes and curly hair. 

It had absolutely nothing to do with gentle guitar chords or the words  _ there was a chance for us there _ .


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, you probably won't be surprised to hear this, but... I have absolutely no idea where this story is going....

Harry decided fleeing was the best possible option post-impromptu performance. Plus, Frederick was in a snit. He'd already gone out to wait by the car, leaving Harry to get their coats from the surly girl at the coat check.

“Are you meant to be famous, then?” she asked as she handed them over. Making a split second decision, he simply sighed, took them, and ignored her comment. It was the only thing he was going to miss about the fame; being rude for no reason was actually quite freeing.

“You know when he said you were good, I don't think I ever quite believed him. He tends to fuss over pretty things. But you _are_ good. It's ridiculous.”

“Hi Pansy,” he replied wearily.

“So, you _do_ remember me,” she smiled, kicking off the wall she'd been lurking against and tugging her dress down.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Um, yeah. Just met you like fifteen minutes ago?”

“Nah,” she scoffed. “You remember me from school, don't you? I know you don't remember _him_ but, sixth form. Hogwarts. We had chemistry together. I don't forget a face.”

Harry studied her for a minute. He was going to have to admit it, but he wasn't really sure what to say.

“I remember you,” he settled on. Simplicity seemed like a good idea. “I remember him, too. But it was a long time ago.”

She took a step toward him and studied him in return, folding her arms and appraising him.

“I had top set maths with him. He didn't… Well, I mean, you remember how your lot treated the scholarship kids. When I saw him in the shop that day, I couldn't quite place him. I figured it out later, of course, but…”

“He left early,” she said harshly. “He'll tell you why if you ask him. He's more decent than the rest of us.”

Harry's eyes cast down as he remembered what little he could from Draco at school. You'll forgive me for not buying that one.”

“That why you wrote the song?” Pansy smirked at him when he looked away. “Just what I thought.”

She dropped her arms and looped her arm through his as they walked to the door. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to a near whisper.

“Now, you had to know that I'd figure it out, which makes me think perhaps I should let you know…he's engaged. To a woman. It's not exactly his first choice.”

Harry sighed. “Why would I care about that, Pansy. I don't even know him.”

She shrugged. “Also, your boyfriend is an ass. He hit on the coat check girl before he left.”

Harry grimaced. “He takes some getting used to.”

“He's an ass. And you know it. Take Draco out.”

“You just said he was engaged.”

“Take him out. Before it's too late. There _is_ a chance for you there.”

“You're reading too much into that,” he said sulkily. “It's just a crap song.”

“Right,” Pansy laughed. “And _you_ don't remember Draco from school. Just prepare yourself. He takes some getting used to, as well. But, unlike that trash you're wandering around with, he's worth it.”

* * *

 

The shop was empty when Harry walked in and he exhaled in extreme relief at the fact. He was not interested in signings or attention today. He'd managed to get there by tube, only getting stopped once by a gaggle of young girls wanting a selfie.

“Hullo,” shouted the woman he could just barely see in the back room. “Right with you.”

“No rush,” he replied, shucking his coat and laying it on the omnipresent stool beside the guitar wall. He pulled one down at random, a bright blue strat that he knew Draco had ordered years ago thinking someone might buy it. He strummed once, hating the sound of the unplugged electric and throwing it back on the shelf. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took in the shop.

In three years, not much had changed. The music stands had moved corners again because Al hated them and was constantly trying to get them out of his line of site. They’d acquired a double bass at some point and it was precariously pinned to the wall just waiting for someone to buy it. It still had the faint glow of terrible lighting, the smell of dingy old strip mall, and the promise of possibility that was synonymous with the place.

“Sorry about that.”   
  
The woman Harry turned to find had long blonde hair, overalls over a crop top, and glasses that were impossibly too big on her face.  
  
“No, that’s okay. I’m just browsing.”   
  
The girl stared at him for a moment, clearly attempting to decide how to react. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she took a deep breath and said, rather calmly considering how much air she’d just taken in, “Sorry but you’re Potter and Prose right?” 

He smiled kindly. “I prefer Harry.”   
  
“Ohmygod, ohmygod. Okay, be cool Audrey.” She muttered to herself a few more times before she stuck out her hand at a very direct angle. “Audrey. Never meet famous people. Not gonna make it weird, your music is great, I’m sad you’re leaving, thanks for coming in, is there anything I can help you with.”   
  
He shook her hand with a chuckle and replied, “I’m actually looking for Abe. Is he around?”   
  
“He’s not supposed to be because of the whole honeymoon thing but he’s in the back. I’m not supposed to tell anyone that.”   
  
“Audrey,” Abe called from the side room. “Have you seen the box of oboe reeds that came in on Wednesday?”   
  
“Customer,” she called back in a slightly strangled voice. Appropriately curious and possibly a little concerned, Abe’s head appeared around the corner of the door.

“No it’s fucking not,” Abe laughed. “He’s a louse who hangs about playing a guitar he never buys.”   
  
Audrey looked mortified, but Harry burst out laughing.   
  
“Hi, Abrahim,” he said cheerily.

“‘Hi’? Fuck off. You waltz back in here after three years with a million-pound record deal and some nonsense about ‘ _retiring_ ,” Abe accused. “And you go with _‘hi’_. Harry Potter, you are a terrible celebrity.”   
  
“I know. That’s sorta the point.”

Abe boomed with his loud laugh and Harry grinned at him in return. It was very much nice to be home.

“So, why are you here, Mr Local Celebrity?”   
  
“I need new strings,” Harry said meekly.  
  
“Bull shit.”   
  
“Well,” he replied. “And I wanted to apologise for the whole...thing…”   
  
Abe shrugged. “Don’t think it was really your fault, was it? Besides, it all worked out fine. Draco dealt with it.” 

“Yeah, I know, I just…”   
  
“You’re forgiven if that’s what you need to hear.” Abe wandered out of the back room and gave Harry a gentle tap on the shoulder. Which, for him, might as well have been a bear hug. “Come over here. I’ve got these new coated steel you’ll like.”  
  
Harry grinned and followed Abe, endured a ten-minute lecture of the benefits of coated strings versus uncoated, and let the bubble of contentment wiggle back into his brain.

“So I hear congratulations are in order?” Harry asked when he had finally chosen a set of strings.  
  
“Well, it was either marry Marco or listen to him _whine_ about not marrying him. It just seemed easier. Oh my god, you should come! It’s next week.”   
  
Harry laughed. “Abe, my friend, you know I’d be honoured, but you barely know me. And I know none of your friends. Besides, isn’t a bit late to be adding people to the wedding?”   
  
“You could be Audrey’s plus one! She doesn’t have a date.”   
  
Behind the counter, the girl blushed so hard that Harry was concerned for her safety. He tried desperately to rescue her.   
  
“Abe, mate, I’m very happy for you. I’ll send you a huge basket of...something. But trust me when I tell you, no one needs me crashing their wedding this month. Marco would kill me.”   
  
“Hm, guess that’s true. Stealing spotlights and everything.” Abe studied him while leaning on the counter. Audrey packed up the strings and handed him the stamped paper bag they’d been using at the shop since he’d worked there. “Draco isn’t supposed to be in today, but I could call him.”   
  
“What?” Harry declared. “Why?”   
  
Abe shrugged again. “Just...could.”   
  
“I actually saw him last night,” Harry admitted reluctantly. 

Abe, predictably, stood up and clapped his hands together. “Knew it!” he declared. “Strings my ass. Well, and?”  
  
“And?”   
  
“How’d it go? Did you both get all adorable and flustered like you used to?”   
  
“Jesus, Abe, shove off. I barely recognised him. Couldn’t place him for a minute, actually. Which was weird.”   
  
Abe shrugged. “He’s cut off all that dreadful hair and actually sleeps now and then. I get it.”  
  
“Yeah, well—”

“Way hotter than he used to be, and you know it,” Abe continued. “And we know how _you_ felt about him even in his scrawny years, so that had to be nice for you.”   
  
“Abe, stop—”  
  
“And I suppose that means the Ice Queen was there,” Abe added. “She tell you about the engagement? Don’t think she’s too happy about it. She’s been telling everyone for a week. I think she’s secretly in love with him, which is ridiculous because he’s as gay as the day is long, but then we don’t really choose who to fall in love with, now do we?”  
  
Abe winked at Harry pointedly and he felt his face flush with anger.  
  
“Abe, enough. It was a long time ago, and it was just a stupid crush.”   
  
“Oh yeah, that’s how I remember it, alright.” Abe rolled his eyes. “I remember you saying _stupid crush_ when you came to me the day before moving to Bristol sobbing about how you should have told him and now it was too late and was it worth it to bring up and etcetera. It felt _very_ stupid, in my memory.”   
  
When Harry finally met Abe’s eye, he didn’t see the teasing he was expecting. Instead, Abe looked angry, frustrated. The same face that Pansy had had the night before when telling him to ask Draco out. Harry resolutely ignored the reaction. 

“I’m leaving now,” he insisted. “Thanks for the lesson about the strings.”   
  
Abe sighed and dug into his pocket. “Wait, here. Take this. And don’t even think about arguing with me on that. You don’t have much time. Pansy is right about one thing; Draco _should not_ be marrying Astoria.”  
  
Harry let the frustration he had been feeling well up. “Yeah, well, be that as it may, I don’t know Draco, and you and Pansy can just stop claiming that I am somehow the answer to this problem. He’s your friend. Just tell him.”   
  
“Oh, Potter,” Abe sighed again. “You really _don’t_ know Draco. One does not simply _tell_ Draco things. He must be shown. Made to think it was own idea. Romanced away from a plan. And—forgive me for being blunt—but you are as gorgeous as the day you were when you walked in here as an unknown hobo. If Draco saw you last night, you’d better believe he is currently paying attention. Since you, Mr Blushy McBlusherson, quite clearly feel the same way, I am perfectly willing to be the one who points out the obvious. You still like him. He still likes you. Go save him from himself.”   
  
Harry threw his hands up in the air and shouted incoherently. “I am not here to save people from sham marriages!”   
  
“Why are you here, then?” Abe crossed his arms across his chest and smirked. “Hm? Because, hate to break it to you Potter, there are easier ways to obtain strings. Surely you have people for that, even now.”   
  
“I… It’s… I was apologising!”  
  
“Sure,” Abe smirked. “Sure you were. Have a good day mate. Don’t lose that card.” 

* * *

 

Harry stormed his way out of the store, startling a pigeon that was roosting on the sidewalk. He kicked at the ground with his toe and scuffed his shoe. He stared at the marked toe for a moment and then forced himself to unclench his fists. The card Abe had handed him was still there, crumpled and ragged already from all the gripping.  
  
_Draco Malfoy, holdings and accounts_

The card was on thick, expensive paper. There was an address stamped there, as well as phone number and an email address. Harry shoved it in his pocket, put the strings there as well, and marched off down the street.


	5. Chapter 5

When Harry arrived at the address on the card, he glared at the building until an older lady with her dog crossed the street to avoid him. He heaved a great sigh and whipped the door open. The security guard behind the desk looked rather alarmed, but he stormed up to her just the same.    
  
“Draco Malfoy?” he growled. 

“Er, third floor. Is there something I can help you with, sir?”    
  
“He’s my business associate,” Harry grumbled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”    
  
She smiled at him tightly and pointed to the lift. He tried to be a bit more gentle when he walked off; the last thing he needed was to have the police called because he was grumpy. He’d never get that one out of the papers. 

When the doors opened on the third floor, he found himself standing in a bright, posh office that was teeming with activity. There were people milling around, potted ficus in every corner, and a sleek black desk where an intimidating woman with a headset sat.    
  
“Can you point me in the direction of Draco Malfoy’s office, please?” he asked politely. 

She held up one finger and continued speaking into the phone in a bored, monotone voice that made his ears hurt. 

“Do you have an appointment?” she chirped a moment later. He shook his head and she frowned. “Let me call him. Name?”    
  
He looked down at the floor and sighed. “Harry.” 

“Harry…?”   
  
“I’m pretty sure if you say Harry he’ll figure it out.”   
  
“And yet, here I am, asking for your full name before I admit you to my associate's office _unannounced_ and appointment-less,” she returned, raising an eyebrow at him as her finger hovered over the phone keys. 

“Harry Potter,” he replied miserably. She barely even blinked but hit three buttons with such a pointed attack that the click of her nails sounded painful. She whispered something into the phone, then pointed one talon-like hand without looking at him. Deciding not to thank her, Harry stormed down the hall until he found the office labelled with the same title in the same font as the business card. 

“Your friends are incredibly invasive,” he announced by way of greeting. “Also, I've decided I'm mad at you.” 

“Hello, Harry,” Draco replied, a small smirk on his face. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you  _ quite  _ this soon after yesterday.” 

“It's all your fault. You owe me an apology.” 

Draco waved a distracted hand towards his phone and continued as though Harry hadn’t spoken. “Abe said you'd bought some fancy strings and that I should expect you in a few days. He seems to have underestimated your anger.”  

“I'm serious!”

“Yes, that much is clear. I just think I'll be better capable of repentance if I have more information. What, exactly, is my fault?” 

Harry stared at him a moment and then spun around to take in the office he had entered in his haze of frustration. Modern and modestly furnished, it screamed high class and money. He snorted and threw himself into an extremely uncomfortable chair across from Draco's glass desk. 

“Please, take a seat,” Draco quipped. He crossed his arms and regarded Harry coolly. “Would you care to catch me up? Perhaps starting at the beginning? I thought we had discussed that court business. Since that is the sum of our connection these days, I’d love to hear why you’re here right now.”

“I'd forgotten how much money you have,” Harry replied instead, gesturing to the expensive painting on the wall behind Draco’s head. It was very likely an original.

“I  _ manage  _ a lot of money,” he returned. “Don't change the subject.”

“My entire adult life,” Harry responded petulantly. "It's all your fault."

“Oh, I see,” Draco replied with his irritating smirk. “That clears things up. And, what, pray tell, do my friends have to do with that? I mean, I know they can be meddlesome but they hardly made you sign that contract." 

“This wasn’t supposed to be my life after school,” Harry continued loudly, ignoring Draco. “Outside of Hogwarts, no one was supposed to know who I was. I was going to leave rumours and whispers behind. I was supposed to be some boring asshole with a crappy apartment and the anonymity of the average. Instead, I walked into your bloody music shop and found that guitar, and… and all of it. And now, I have to decide whether or not to go on the bloody fucking  _ tube.  _ I've decided my life i s entirely your fault.” 

“I guess I can take credit for Hazel,” Draco mused, picking up his pen again and continuing whatever he’d been working on. “I’m afraid the rest was all you. Well...you and Abe. Is that why you’re so mad?” 

Harry fought a smile. “Hazel,” he said fondly. “I miss Hazel. Best guitar ever. If only she’d had a pickup. Do you know what happened to her?”   
  
There was a pregnant silence as Draco paused, staring at the surface of the desk a moment before closing his eyes and sighing. “I have her,” he confessed.  
  
“What?” Harry asked with a confused smile. 

“I bought her. I took her home.”    
  
“I didn’t know you played." Harry looked away with a gentle shrug. “Hope you treat her really well.” 

Draco sighed again and when he finally looked up, Harry noted a blush that had not been there a moment ago. He knew the rosy hue quite well; once upon a time, his days had not felt complete until he had made the alabaster skin at least a little bit pink. Draco cleared his throat. “I don’t play,” he admitted. “I just...I couldn’t get my head around someone else buying it and taking it out of the shop.”    
  
Harry froze, overwhelmed by the implications, knowing his own expression was giving away his emotions

“Why?”    
  
“Well…” Draco began. “I mean, it’s  _ your  _ guitar. It chose you. It would have been wrong for someone else to own it.”    
  
Harry was dumbfounded. He stared at Draco for a moment, trying and failing to say many things. Embarrassingly, tears sprung to his eyes before he managed to speak, and he looked away for a moment before he stood up and reached across Draco’s desk to give him a very awkward hug. Alarmed, Draco returned the gesture lightly, and Harry forced himself to pull away. His anger had flared and died, and though it was likely because 'anger' wasn't actually the emotion he was feeling, Harry had no idea how to process the place his head and heart were. Draco buying a guitar from his own shop really shouldn't be bringing him—a grown ass man who owned seven different guitars—to tears.  
  
“Thank you,” he muttered finally, hoarse and emotional, unable to meet Draco's eye.    
  
Draco looked as embarrassed as Harry felt. “It’s not a big deal. You can have it if you want it.”    
  
“I’ll buy it off you,” Harry insisted, retreating to his uncomfortable chair.

“I’ve just said you can have it. It’s always been your guitar,” Draco replied. “Harry?” 

Harry looked back at Draco and found an imploring stare that made him squirm internally.   
  
“It’ll blow over, you know. The fame thing. Or the walking away, I guess. You’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t mean to yell at you,” Harry replied pathetically. He wiped his face with his sleeve and felt even more ridiculous after. "I’m a bit of a disaster at the moment. Please kick me out now so I can save some face.”      
  
“I know, you’re fine. Relax… now. What did my friends do?”    
  
Harry smiled. “They’re very fixated on me  _ knowing  _ that you’re engaged. They seemed to think it was relevant to my continued existence.”    
  
Draco laughed. “Yes, well, they feel that I am making a grave mistake by marrying Astoria. Their plan seems to be to loudly complain to anyone who will listen to try and put a stop to it.”    
  
“Astoria Greengrass?” Harry interjected.

“You know her?”    
  
“ _ Of  _ her. I was in her Maths course before I left school—I got to Hogwarts late, had to do some catch-up.”    
  
“I remember. Well, she’s lovely. And my parents approve,” Draco added as an afterthought. "Which is a more complicated bonus than you want to know.”     
  
“So, you’re marrying her?”    
  
“Yes.” Draco opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and fiddled with his pen before standing up and shutting the door that Harry had left open. He moved around the desk and sat against its edge. “Harry, are you going to keep showing up in my life? I mean...god, I don’t know why I’m being so awkward right now. I just mean...if we’re going to be friends, I need to say some stuff.”    
  
“Fuck, how terrifying,” Harry said with a grin. “Okay. I’m ready. Hit me.” 

Draco took a deep breath. “I know the world didn’t get the best side of me at school. I don’t even—there’s no excusing it. I was a twat. I’m not really that person. My family is…well, complicated isn’t really a good description, but you get the idea. Did you know, back at the shop, that we’d gone to school together?” 

Harry nodded.

“You should have said something. I could have…apologised or…”      
  
“We were all different people at school, Draco,” Harry replied. “Besides, out of all the Halls people, I’m not the one you owe an apology. It didn’t seem relevant at the time. I didn’t  _ actually  _ know you, either. I think we spoke once? Maybe twice?”    
  
“Well, fine, but there were—or  _ are _ , I suppose—rumours. About how my family got its start? Nasty things. And they aren’t true. Much like I’m sure that many of the things said about  _ you  _ weren’t true.”    
  
“Oh, no, most of that was true,” Harry teased. “Especially the part about me being a  _ raging  _ bisexual.” Draco's brow furrowed even deeper. Harry laughed again. “Draco, seriously.  _ Relax _ . I don’t care about school. We're getting a bit old for that. Now, I don't know if we're friends, but you can stop apologising for shit that never happened. Okay?"

"I will if you stop apologising for the court shit. Agreed?"   
  
"Yeah, fine." 

"If you’re happy, that’s all that matters. Marry Astoria. Fuck your friends. Well, I mean, not literally, because you’ll be  _ married _ …  although if that’s your kink, live it, you know?”    
  
Draco burst out laughing. “Dear lord, you are still so ridiculous. I thought the tour circuit would cure you of that.”   
  
“No such luck. My manager tried his damndest.”

“Welcome home, then. Seems like a shitty retirement to immediately play at a popular art gallery," Draco joked. 

"Boyfriend made me," Harry shrugged.  


"Pansy hated him, by the way."  
  
“Yes, that seems to be the reigning opinion of poor Frederick,” Harry replied. “ _My_ friends don’t love him either.”    
  
“And you don’t care?” Draco asked, only a little bit appalled. But Harry only shrugged.   
  
“He has some…redeeming qualities,” he added with a wink. 

“You slag.”    
  
“Proudly. I am a rock star after all,” he laughed, standing up again. “I’ll head out. Sorry I stormed in here. Abe made me angry. It’s not a great reason, but then I’ve never really been the rational sort. We should go for drinks sometime. I owe you at least three pints for the chaos of the last album. Bye, Draco.”    
  
“Do you want your old job back?” Draco asked suddenly when Harry was at the door.    
  
Harry froze. “How would that even go, Draco? ‘Washed up folk artist works the counter at local shop’?”    
  
“Exactly.”    
  
Harry smiled. “I’ll think about it. Congratulations on the engagement.”  


	6. Chapter 6

Draco picked up the receiver on his phone the second his door clicked shut. Listening as Harry’s footsteps retreated down the hallway, Draco exhaled deeply and hung his head before dialling. He begged Pansy to be in the office the whole time the phone rang. When she finally picked up using her poshest  _ ‘I am your negotiator and you can count on me’ _ voice, he immediately attacked. It wouldn't win him any points with her, but he was too keyed up to care.

“What did you say to Harry Potter that sent him storming into my office this afternoon?” he shouted 

She laughed at him. “He turned up at your office? How did he know where it was?”

Draco sighed. “Well, that part was Abe, but…” 

“So, not my fault at all, then?” Pansy laughed. “Wait, are you ever so subtly asking if I told him about Astoria? Because yes. Yes, I did.”

“Pansy,” Draco groaned.

“Don’t you  _ Pansy  _ me. I had to listen to many hours of your crush on this Potter bloke, and now he’s back and hot and wants you, and I will not stand idly by when you are still available.”

“Pansy, stop,” he insisted. “I don’t ‘want’ him and I am  _ not  _ available.”

She laughed at him meanly. “Whatever, darling. Keep telling yourself that.”

“What am I supposed to do with him? Shag him before I marry my wife, get it out of my system?” he replied angrily.

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re supposed to shag him before you marry your wide, then fall in love with him, realise that marrying Astoria is a terrible decision, and finally throw off this ridiculous sense of  _ duty  _ you imagine exists. You’re supposed to do something for yourself for a change.”

“It’s not ‘imagined’. You know that.”

She sighed deeply and when she spoke again, her voice had softened. “Even if that’s true, you know how to fix it, Draco. You can. You’re afraid, but it’s definitely a possibility. You can end this.”

Draco swallowed hard, resting his head on his desk again. “It doesn’t feel like it is, Pansy. I’ll…I’ll lose her.”

“Draco,” Pansy murmured. “Draco, you know that she’s already gone.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the lump in his throat down. “I know,” he whispered. “Speaking of which. Did you send the forms over that I asked for?”

She sighed again, but it was sadder this time and it made the rock in the pit of his stomach flip over once. “Yes. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“If I don’t sell it, they’ll get it, too. It’s…it’s too important to me to keep it.”

“You still have a few months.”

“Pansy,” he warned.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. I sent them. Abe just needs to sign.”

“I offered him a job,” Draco announced suddenly.

“Doll, Abe has been working for you for—“

“Not Abe,” Draco clarified. “Potter. I offered him his job back.”

Pansy laughed. “Isn’t that a bit complicated since you no longer own the shop as of this afternoon?”

“Yeah,” Draco replied miserably.

“Would it not have been easier to just ask him for coffee?”

“Maybe,” Draco said meekly. “I panicked.”

“Of course you did.”

“Shut up.”

“So is this you admitting you still have feelings for the rock star?

Draco gave in. The complicated feeling of unsettled remorse that had appeared when Harry hugged him nestled down a little further on his shoulders. He reasoned that if he was going to be able to talk to anyone, at all, for the rest of the day, he was just going to have to tell Pansy. 

“ _ Maybe _ ,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to act on them,” he added quickly. 

“Sure. Whatever. Get back to work, loser,” she said, laughing at him. “Or have you already carved out an entire afternoon of pining over the bloke?”

Draco laughed, feeling just a little bit lighter for having admitted to himself how he felt. “Why the fuck did I call you again?” he teased.

“You love me?”

“Hm. I have terrible taste.”

“I’ve always said. Love you, Draco. Don’t go back to the ring place today.”

* * *

 

He laughed as he hung up, yet his whole body prickled with endless doubt. He spent the next hour trying to decide whether or not to call Abe, and he was so distracted by the many arguments warring in his head that he forgot to glance down and check the caller ID before he picked up.

“Draco Abraxas,” his father hissed by way of greeting. “Would you care to explain to me why I just received a Certificate of Amendment from that bloody little music shop of yours?”

Draco rolled his eyes at the ceiling but schooled his emotions as he calmly replied, “Well, I have confirmed new ownership of the shop, and as head of the board, you receive notification  _ ex post facto  _ of large company changes _.  _ It’s basic logistics and legal procedure, Father. I don’t understand your question.”

“Watch your tongue, young man,” Lucius snapped. “Who on earth gave you permission to transfer ownership? I certainly don’t remember hearing about it from the board.”

“The shop was mother’s property,” Draco said coolly. “It is  _ mine _ , not the Malfoy’s. I was under no obligation to inform the board.”

“You know very well what is invested in that shop,” Lucius seethed.

“I do.”

“How  _ dare  _ you speak to me like I am one of your lackeys. Do I need to remind you what is at stake for you?”

“I suppose you’ll have to find some other unsuspecting small business to ‘invest’ the profits of your terrorism into.” 

Despite his very intentionally calm tone, Draco held his breath, bracing for the backlash. It was reckless to remind his father that he couldn’t actually  _ disown  _ Draco, despite the almost constant threats to do just that. He was afraid, most of the time, that Lucius Malfoy would finally lose what was left of his sanity and either do it anyway or have him killed. Pansy liked to insist that this worry was just Draco being melodramatic. Draco wasn’t so sure. 

As he waited out the silence on the line, his whole body hummed with satisfaction; satisfaction of the decision to give Abe the shop. Satisfaction that he was already telling his father about it. Satisfaction that, just for this one tiny moment, he had his father by the short and curlies. He was, apparently, feeling reckless.

Finally, Lucius cleared his throat. “You and Astoria are expected to make an appearance at the gala this weekend,” he muttered, clearly trying to regain his own composure; perhaps he was in the office. Draco’s gamble had, for now, paid off.

“Great,” he said sarcastically. “Can’t wait.”

He hung up before his father could get in the last word and pulled a small black ledger from its hiding place in the false front of his desk and flipped it open to the fourth page.

_ Holden and Sons — instruments etc, — diversion of half a million pounds. _

He took out a red pen and carefully crossed it out. Beside it, he wrote ‘commandeered’ in tiny black letters. He was tempted to draw a Jolly Rodger beside it, but he resisted.

The rest of the day passed slowly, lost in thought. Unfortunately, he did not spend any time at all thinking about how he had officially entered the fray of shutting down his father’s racketeering. Even though the decision was definitely irreversible, he’d known where he was headed for a long time. Three years, to be exact.

No, Draco did not spend any time thinking about how he might officially be a criminal.

He was far too distracted by thoughts of curly hair and gentle blushes, of resurfacing emotions and of debilitating self-doubt.

“Fucking Harry Potter,” he groaned to himself as he packed up for the day and spilt out onto the street.   
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever become a different person and decide to get married, I promise you that I will spend all the money I have to get married in the Temperate House of Kew Gardens. You owe it to yourself to google it. Seriously.

Technically, the gala was the last event he had to attend as Potter and Prose. His manager had set up the donation months ago, convinced that Harry needed the PR boost. At £500 a plate, he wasn’t sure how a fancy ass dinner in the Royal Botanicals was going to help his public image, but that was why he employed other people to do the parts of celebrity that he did not understand.

“I wish you’d reconsider taking Luna instead,” Gloria said for at least the seventh time as she handed him the recently dry-cleaned tux. “Frederick is just so…”

She trailed off and looked at him at a loss.

“Well, you can all relax,” Harry said, rolling his eyes as he sighed and waved her into the house. “I’m not bringing him. We broke up.”  
  
“What?” Gloria replied, the glee in her voice badly hidden. “How did _that_ happen?”  
  
“Well,” Harry hesitated. “Turns out he didn’t particularly _like_ my decision to take my old job back at the music shop.”  
  
“You... _what?_ ”" Gloria flustered. “Never mind the German, I told you he was just glomming onto fame, blah blah blah. Let’s circle back to the place where you are  _taking a job_? When exactly were you going to tell me this? How the hell do you expect me to contain your publicity if you are going to _work in a bloody shop_ ?” Gloria’s eyes narrowed as Harry offered a feeble shrug. “This is about that blonde, isn’t it? The one you never managed to get your rocks off with back in your normal bloke pants.”  
  
“ _Gloria_ ,” Harry chastised.  
  
“Oh, fuck off, Potter,” Gloria said rubbing her temples. “Do you need a suppression form filled out for him? For the media? You have truly awful timing.”  
  
“ _Gloria_ ,” Harry repeated. “No. I just want...I want my old life back. So I’m going to take it. Draco and I are just—we’re just acquaintances.”  
  
He knew she could tell he was blushing, but she mercifully decided to let it lie. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll figure it out. So who are you bringing, then?” He shrugged feebly and she groaned. “You’re the worst person in the  _entire_ world. I truly despise you. Alright, I’ll go work on a statement about your breakup so you don’t get eaten alive when you show up stag.”  
  
“I adore you, Geegee.” He kissed her on the cheek and she smiled a long-suffering smile before belting him across the head.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”  
  
“What is this frigging gala for, anyway?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head and continuing the process of getting ready that he’d been in the middle of when she’d knocked.

“Some big intercommunity organization that may or may not be raising money for...something. I think they’re building a hospital? Or...something. It’s that corporation. The one with the creepy name? Bloster and...something. Blurgin? Blakely?”  
  
“Borgin and Burke?” Harry asked, surprised. Gloria touched her nose. “Don’t they have, like, highly questionable business practices?”  
  
Gloria waved him off. “Sure, sure. But they’re one of those mega-corp whatever they are. With all the money. They’re always at least a little bit corrupt.”  
  
“Yeah, but weren’t they under investigation for money laundering and profiting from crime? Like, last year or something.”  
  
“Never found anything. So I assume that’s why the sudden charity push. Hospitals or whatever.”  
  
“It occurs to me that I should stop relying on you for information regarding the events you force me to go to,” he quipped.  
  
“Your tie is hideous. Wear the black one.” She patted him on the cheek and headed back out of his apartment. “Don’t drink too much and embarrass me. Please. Just...behave.”  
  
He laughed as he pushed his feet into his expensive and horrible shoes. He was already going to be late if he didn’t get a move on.  
  
“Gee, can you call me a—”  
  
“The car is already waiting for you on the street, you dolt,” she called back at him from the third set of stairs. “Honestly. Learn to be famous. Idiot.”  
  
“Thank you!” he called with a laugh.

It was fair to categorize the event as _resplendent_. The ride to Kew had been uneventful, but pulling up to the gardens, Harry found car after car of semi-important people of the London elite. He’d now spent enough time amongst them that a few called his name as he exited the car, but he decided on a perfunctory wave rather than a stop-and-chat.

The dinner was to take place in Temperate house; Harry was actually a bit excited. The large glasshouse loomed over them with classic Victorian overkill, and he knew the food was going to be amazing. He wandered around for a moment after disposing of his coat, taking in the greenery and bypassing the bar. It was a bit early for him to begin his four drink limit and he didn’t really feel like he needed the comfort yet. He’d always been pretty good at this, comfortable in social settings even when they should feel awkward.

He was just admiring a gigantic, Jurassic looking fern when his elbow was touched gently. He turned to find a smirking Draco Malfoy, in a deep green tux with his hair slicked into a stylish but frozen quaff.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Draco teased with a smirk. “Do you think we should share social calendars?”  
  
Harry laughed despite his confusion. “What are you doing here?” he asked with a grin.

“This is my father’s gala,” Draco replied. His tone was light but there was a flash of darkness in his expression that Harry stored away for further investigation. He didn’t push for more information. It made sense that Draco Malfoy’s father was involved in an organisation as huge as Borgin and Burke. It wasn’t exactly a secret that they were very, very rich.

“Oh dear lord,” Draco suddenly added, glancing around furtively. “I need to watch out for that obnoxious blonde of yours, don’t I?”  
  
Harry grinned, coy and abashed. “He’s not here. You can be the first to know that I am here stag. Use the information wisely, and you could net yourself a tidy profit from the press.”  
  
Draco studied him sidelong. “I’m...sorry?”  
  
“Nah, you don’t need to be. I’d like that job, by the way? If the offer is still on the table.”  
  
Draco smiled at him, a little bit surprised. “You know it is. I’ll tell Abe to expect you Monday.”  
  
“Thanks, Draco,” he replied earnestly.  
  
“Do you want a drink?” Draco blurted. “I’ve just remembered that I was on a mission to the bar for Astoria and should probably continue in that direction before she finds me here distracted.”  
  
“I’m not that distracting,” Harry quipped before he could stop himself.  
  
Draco looked away; Harry let the tiny flare of victory make him blush and followed when Draco started walking. They made it all the way to the bar at the other end of the greenhouse before Harry had thought of a way to correct the situation. Draco ordered two glasses of white and Harry threw in a request for one of the fancy, themed cocktails on the list in front of him, much to Draco’s chagrin.  
  
“I tried so hard when I used to organise this to not let them do themed cocktails,” he said ruefully as Harry collected the highball glass, filled with beautiful layers of liqueur with a hibiscus flower adorning the bottom. “And here you are, proving all the vendors right.”  
  
“Love me a themed cocktail,” Harry replied, sipping from the dainty straw with a smirk. Draco looked away again, and Harry’s stomach swooped just slightly.

This was ridiculous. This needed to stop. The man was engaged. The man was engaged and now technically his boss again, and more importantly, he was _not_ interested in pursuing their little attraction again after three years. Harry needed to stop flirting, stop acting in this self-indulgent way that was unfair to them both. Sure, he knew Draco found him attractive, but in all honesty, after three years that didn’t mean much; he knew what he looked like. His appearance was an expensive, carefully crafted affair. Gloria insisted that the bare bones had given her something to work with, but Harry knew he hadn’t been worth much at all before he had been carefully turned into _Potter and Prose_. The attraction was almost certainly to that and Harry was not going to delude himself much longer.

He could work on ignoring the fact that he thought Draco was possibly the most beautiful human he had ever seen. In the deepest, most private place he understood about himself, he’d thought this since school. Draco had been untouchable then, even more than now. The elite of the heritage kids, cold and aloof until the day he mysteriously disappeared. Harry was embarrassed to admit that the aristocratic features, the feather-light hair, the delicate line and curve of every part of Draco really did it for him. Blondes were, after all, his type.

He knew it was technically more than that; the fact that he had spent many hours flirting with this man before he’d ever even considered fame, or the impact Draco had had on his world-changing career. But that stuff wasn’t really in play here. He wasn’t that person anymore, and he had no idea who Draco was now.

He cleared his throat and stared at his glass. “So, um. Where is this lovely fiance of yours that I keep hearing about?”  
  
Draco’s face lit up and it punched Harry in the stomach. “Oh my goodness, that’s right. You haven’t met her. Come with me.”

* * *

 Draco latched onto the lifeline that Harry had offered him. They’d hit shaky ground and Draco wasn’t enough of a fool not to realise it. The heat in his cheeks was evidence if the look on Harry’s face hadn’t been enough. He gazed around the room looking for Astoria in her matching emerald gown. He found her with the Minister’s wife under the Chilean Wine Palm, hair in a complicated knot at the base of her neck and a plate of _hors d'oeuvres_ balanced delicately in one hand.

He led Harry across the room with her glass of wine and introduced the two of them with the typical grace that had been expected of him since the dawn of time. They sized each other up with an almost imperceptible level of ferocity that surprised Draco; did they know that they held each other in slight competition, or was he reading into that?  
  
“But of course, the famous Potter,” Astoria finally said, offering a delicate hand to Harry, who kissed it like it was 1902. She laughed politely, but the smile did not reach her eyes.

“You are almost as famous, amongst Draco’s friends,” Harry replied teasingly, the menace only apparent because Draco had spent so much time studying his hatred for Al.

“You’re here alone?” Astoria asked next, making Draco cringe internally.  
  
Harry did not take the bait. He smiled gently and nodded. “An unavoidable conflict in schedules, I’m afraid. It’s probably for the best, though. I’m enough ‘guest’ all on my own.”

“You must move him so he is sitting with us,” Astoria implored, a hand on his arm in a possessive gesture that was very unlike her.

“No, no,” Harry protested. “That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine wherever I am—”  
  
“Nonsense,” Astoria protested. “Draco, take him now and move him. He doesn’t know anyone.” She held up a hand at Harry’s continued protests. “It’s really no trouble. This man has _clout_ ,” she added proudly.”  
  
Draco smiled. “Come on, Harry. She’s right.”

Harry conceded and followed Draco through the crowded hall, close enough that Draco could  _feel_ him behind him. He made a split second decision.

“Through here.” Draco gestured through the tiny corridor to at the end of the hall.

“The seating chart is in the cloakroom?” Harry asked, confused. Draco nodded noncommittally as they entered the room. 

Since everyone was here now, the attendants were relaxed and in a corner, chatting. One looked up at him as though he was going to stand, but Draco sternly waved him off. The young man, though confused, obviously recognised money or possibly posh snootiness when he saw it and sat back down. He led Harry further into the cramped room until they were in the back corner of the room between coat racks and a door for a staff loo.  
  
“This has to stop,” he said suddenly, whirling around on Harry who had the decency to look surprised for a moment. It was when his face relaxed, however, that Draco knew just how screwed they both were. Harry nodded slightly and sighed.  
  
“Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing. I’m really sorry. Astoria seems...wonderful.”  
  
“You don’t have to think that,” Draco insisted. “You  _do_ have to tell Pansy to back off. She’s making you uncomfortable, I can tell.”  
  
Harry laughed. “I think I’m doing that to myself. It’s hard, isn’t it? When an old crush pops up out of nowhere. I’ll pay more attention though, I promise. I’m sorry, for what it’s—”  
  
“Wait, what?” Draco interrupted. “What do you mean, ‘crush’?”  
  
“You’re kidding, right?” Harry grinned at him and it threw Draco off balance. “I used to have the  _biggest_ crush on you. Back in my Holden shop days. You didn’t know?”  
  
Draco had an entire sentence pop into his mind. It was a good one, right on brand. _I may have suspected something. I get it. I’m very beautiful, after all._ But the words disappeared somewhere between his brain and his mouth and he hated it, because, in that instant, he  _knew_ what he was going to do. And it was going to make everything significantly more complicated.

The surge in his movements was very complex; he was instantly out of control in a way that he’d never before experienced. His mouth was open as though he was going to explain, but instead, he crashed into Harry's chest first. As most humans would have, Harry stepped back with one foot, braced Draco by the arms, and opened  _his_ mouth to ask if Draco was okay.

The kiss ignited him. It fueled him. It dragged his arms, forcefully, around Harry’s back so that they were pressed entirely and completely into each other. When Harry was kissing him back all of a sudden, backing them up until his back hit the wall, Draco let loose the sound that was fighting its way out of his throat. He let it go on. Now that he was here, he couldn’t be the one to end it. Finally, Harry pulled away, though his hands remained braced on Draco’s arms.

“Draco,” he complained, strained and confused.  
  
“I know,” Draco whined. “I’m so sorry. I just...I had to know.”  
  
“Why!?”  
  
“Because I wanted you  _so_ badly. Back then,” Draco admitted. “And like...maybe now? I needed to know.”  
  
“And what have you learned,” Harry whispered.  
  
“I don’t fucking know.” Draco leaned on Harry instead of the wall, let their foreheads rest together.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry replied, pulling back and taking a step back. “That’s what I was worried about. I’m suddenly feeling a bit light headed. I think I’ll go find my seat now.”  
  
He was out of the room before Draco had even managed to convince himself to open his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

For the rest of the evening, Harry attempted to convince himself that he was neither dizzy nor sick to his stomach because he was absolutely not affected by either Draco's admission or his absolutely brilliant kiss in a coat rack. Harry wouldn't admit these things to himself because he was not that person. He was not a secret lover. Draco was engaged. Therefore, Harry was not going to be kissing him in cloakrooms. 

No matter how excellent the kissing was. 

Dinner should have been fantastic and, as his last fancy meal for a while, Harry should have been able to enjoy it in peace. His waiter was cute and the young socialite he was sat beside was bubbly and fun. Finally, he just excused himself to go to the washroom. 

As he left the room, a voice stopped him with a fervent, “Mr Potter.” 

The title, which almost no one used, made him pause. He turned to find Astoria Greengrass, in her elegant dress and high heels hurrying toward him. 

“Ms Greengrass.” He nodded in acknowledgement and paused his strides despite the fact that he was not convinced he wasn't about to actually throw up 

“Astoria, please,” she replied warmly. She was like a kid with a piece of candy. She was practically bouncing. “I'm so glad you left the room. I've been trying to figure out how to corner you for like an hour.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. “Why?” he asked bluntly. 

“He kissed you, didn't he? I can tell,” she said hurriedly, the animated excitement evident on her face.

“I—yes, but—Astoria, I'm sorry, I stopped it right away and I don't think—”

“What, no. Don't be stupid,” she interrupted. “It's  _ fantastic.  _ Now you can convince him to cancel the wedding!”

Harry was flabbergasted. He moved toward the nearest glass wall and leaned against it, gesturing her closer. He needed her to lower her voice, drop her tone. People were starting to stare.

“Oh my God, you don't know,” Astoria exclaimed, ignoring his frenzied attempts to make their conversation a bit more discrete. “Pansy said she'd told you at the gallery! After she heard you sing! Dear Lord you must be so confused, you poor man.”

“I know you're engaged to—”

“No, no,” she said, waving impatiently. “That's not the thing. You don't know the thing.”

She shimmied over and offered her hand to him. “Come,” she insisted. “There's a settee in the women's toilets.”

“Um, Astoria,” he argued. 

“Nonsense,” she rejected, arching her perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. “My fiancé's money is building an  _ entire hospital.  _ Do you really think anyone is going to object to me bringing a gay man into the sitting room of the toilets?”

He smiled at her wanly and took her hand. She felt like the type of woman who did not warrant arguments. Besides, he reasoned, she was probably right. She led him quickly out of the main greenhouse and into the fanciest toilets he had ever been in; it was a combination of excessive, regal and entirely unnecessary. 

  
“I know,” Astoria said, noting his face with a tinkling laugh. “But I suppose the Victorian ladies needed  _ somewhere  _ to clutch at their pearls and gasp at the ridicule of most men.”    
  
He grinned and followed her into an expertly appointed sitting room, mimicking her gesture as she sat delicately on the rose coloured sofa within. 

“Pansy says you remember me from school,” Astoria began with a frown. “Forgive me for not returning the favour.”    
  
“No forgiveness necessary,” Harry insisted. “We didn’t exactly move in the same circles.”    
  
“That’s no excuse,” she scoffed. “Hogwarts really wasn’t that big. I suppose you don’t know much about me or my family. Or Draco’s family, for that matter.”    
  
“Not really,” he admitted. “Just the rumours that used to float around the halls. I assume you know more about me than I do about you.”    
  
“Unfortunately,” she smiled ruefully. “Seems a bit unfair to be honest.”    
  
“I’m used to it,” he said with a sour chuckle. “And then I chose music as my career, so I really only have myself to blame.”    
  
“You’re very good.” Astoria praised him as though it caused her pain. He cleared his throat, unable to decide how he should respond. She took his meaning and shook her head. “But then, that’s beside the point, isn’t it.” 

He allowed her the pause she took. She inhaled a deep breath, somehow making even this stealing action seem elegant. “Draco and I have been engaged, in some form or fashion, since we were born.”    
  
He went to react, found he had nothing to say, and closed his mouth again 

“Yes, that is as old-fashioned, Elizabethan, and utterly disgusting as you are currently thinking. Technically, we had nullified the agreement when his mother became ill, but I offered last year to...I mean, we renegotiated.”    
  
“I don’t think this is really any of my business,” Harry muttered, looking at his hands. 

“Oh, but he  _ kissed  _ you and therefore, it definitely is.” She smiled broadly at Harry and reached out to clasp his hand. The action was intimate and uncomfortable. Harry only let it go on for a moment before gently pulling back. Astoria’s grin did not lessen. “That’s the first time in years he’s let himself show any sort of emotion, whatsoever, to another human. The first time since...well, he hasn’t told you about Narcissa, has he?” 

Harry shook his head and Astoria sighed. “I feel as though I shouldn’t actually tell you but at the same time, he won’t. So. Just…”    
  
She looked at him imploringly.    
  
“Here’s what I already know,” Harry offered gently. “His mother was very ill when we were in our final year. He left school to help at home. He didn’t come back.” 

“Neither did she,” Astoria replied quietly. “She...she had a stroke. She never regained consciousness. At around that time, Draco’s father also made him partial owner of his...business.”    
  
Harry stared at her hard.    
  
“Astoria,” he asked finally. “Are any of the rumours from school true?”    
  
She looked down at her hands. It was a long time before she spoke again. 

“Some of them,” she eventually whispered. “There’s more...more to it. Than that. Draco’s mother is still…” She hesitated and looked up at him, tears just barely visible in her immaculately adorned eyes. “She’s still alive.  _ Technically. _ And while she’s here, Draco and Lucius—his father, that is—share the responsibility of the company. But...the way his inheritance works is complicated.”   
  
“Astoria,” Harry whined. “I don’t think he’d want me to know this stuff.”    
  
She shook her head and ignored him, murmuring away. Harry couldn’t bring himself to walk away. “Lucius owns everything while she is alive,” Astoria continued. “If Draco is married when she passes, the ownership of her estates—which includes about half of the companies that Lucius currently controls—passes to him. Lucius loses control of the company. Good for everyone, trust me. But if he  _ isn’t _ , Draco is technically not an heir yet, and Lucius takes the company until he is. 

“So you see,” she concluded with an air of importance. “Draco has two choices. Marry and stop his father, or watch his mother’s hard work for the past decade become meaningless.”    
  
Harry stared hard at the chipped tile just at the foot of the settee that was behind Astoria. “Why doesn’t someone just turn Lucius in?” he asked in a whisper.    
  
Astoria just tilted her head at him incredulously.   
  
“Yeah, alright fine. I get it. So when do you marry him? Trust me, I won’t interfere anymore. I get it. I really didn’t mean to get in the middle of something so complicated.”   
  
“You still  _ aren’t listening. _ ” She shook her head, but there was almost a hysterical giggle behind the motion. “I meant what I said—convince him to  _ cancel the wedding _ !” 

“Why?!” Harry shouted, standing suddenly. “Forgive me, but I am really starting to think all of you are  _ insane _ . You literally spent the last five minutes telling me why Draco needed to marry you.”   
  
“Oh no, I didn’t. I spent the last five minutes telling you why Draco has  _ decided  _ he needs to marry me. He feels like he has no alternative! But he does.” She looked at him smugly. “He does, and he knows it. You have to make him tell you.”    
  
“What?” Harry repeated, angry now. “You just told me  _ everything else _ , and you aren’t going to tell me  _ why  _ exactly I should split you up from your fiance! Seriously. You. Are. Mental.”    
  
She laughed her tinkly laugh again. “Oh Mr Potter, right you are. Mental. For sure.” She stood and patted him on the cheek. “But at least now you know your mission.”    
  
She swanned out of the room and Harry, so confused, sank down onto the sofa again, heedless of the fact that he no longer had an escort to be in the room.    


* * *

 

That evening, when they got home, Draco beat Astoria to the bathroom and got in the shower. He left his tux a wrinkled mess on the floor, which may have been rather unlike him in any other situation but felt rather appropriate given his  _ stellar  _ week. 

He stood beneath the stream for longer than was necessary as a post-benefit rinse off. At first, the water was almost too hot, but he did nothing to adjust the temperature until eventually he was either used to it or numb. No matter how he spun it, he had made up his mind. He didn't want to have the ensuing conversations, not with anyone involved, but that kiss from Harry had cinched it. Had decided every small flicker of doubt and tiny voice of uncertainty in his mind; even though the kiss had been slightly involuntary, even when it had been reciprocated for only the briefest of moments, even when the end result had been that disappointed slouch and retreat from Harry. 

By the time he stepped out, he had nothing more sorted in his scattered brain than the resolute decision at hand. Well, that, and the knowledge that he was definitely hard. Which was annoying. He considered standing back in the shower under a cold blast, but he was so warm and loose everywhere else so he resolutely ignored his traitorous cock instead. 

As Astoria brushed past him to brush her teeth, she added a healthy sigh and an eye roll. 

“You look like a boiled lobster,” she chastised. She glanced down and smirked at him. “Want me to deal with that quickly for you? You can lie back and think of England. Or Harry Potter. Whatever you want.”    
  
Draco’s head snapped back to her, embarrassed. Had his skin not already been scalded, he would have blushed. “Shut up,” he replied.    
  
“Nice,” she teased. “It’s okay, Draco. I’ve seen you… _ erect _ before.”    
  
She drew out the word into both its syllables and when her eyebrow arched, he understood what it was about her that had men ogling her in the street, servers flirting even though he was sat at the same table. She was alluring, not beautiful. Entrancing not hot. She was Astoria Greengrass and she was so out of his league it wasn’t even funny.   
  
“Astoria,” he murmured, leaning on the counter and trying desperately to ignore his hardon; this was not the type of conversation one had with a throbbing cock. He willed it down slightly and decided it would have to do as Astoria turned to him with her toothbrush stuck in her mouth and a gentle ‘mm?’ in response to her name. 

He took a deep breath. “I can’t marry you, Astoria,” he said quietly, picking at a scab on his arm. “I just… I can’t.”    
  
Astoria spat into the sink and whirled on him. He braced for the impact. 

“Oh thank  _ LORD, _ ” she exclaimed, jumping adorably on the balls of her feet; impressive, he thought, since she’d been in heels all night.

“W-what?” he asked, confused.   
  
“You can’t marry me, because we are  _ best friends _ . I’ve known you my entire life, I love you endlessly, and if you need me to legally marry you so that you can screw over your heartless father, you know I will do it. In a heartbeat.”    
  
She leaned against the counter next to him and gestured with her toothbrush. “But that,” she gesticulated with her toothbrush, “has nothing to do with me, and we both know it. We also both know that you never really wanted to go with the incredibly old fashioned sham marriage and beard thing.”    
  
Draco laughed with a humourless snort. “Don’t know how you knew that. I certainly didn’t. Not until…”    
  
“It’s just not you, my darling. You’re allowed to realise it at your own pace.” She threw an arm across his shoulders and hip-checked him gently. His cock had calmed in the heat of the conversation and he smiled sadly. “Or at the hands of a very  _ cute  _ musician.”    
  
“I didn’t mean to kiss him…” Draco began. “Wait. How did you know that?”    
  
“Nevermind that,” she scoffed. “What are we doing about Lucius?”    
  
“Well,” Draco sighed. “I think I have a plan.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was strange and tenuous from the start. It's ending that way too, in a hurried, undetailed sort of way. I'm sorry, but also I think it needed to be finished. Thanks for sticking around. Love, PDrarry <3

Harry did not see Draco Malfoy or any of his close associations for an entire week after the kiss. He spent an entire week wondering why on  _ earth  _ he had fled the scene instead of trying to find out more. He also wrote three terrible, lonely-hearted songs that he felt sure would never leave the comfort of his sofa, and not just because he technically wasn’t recording anymore. 

In that week, he also moved some investments around and cashed out some royalties so that he could pay Gloria handsomely to stay his ‘manager’ and de facto personal assistant until the end of the year. Although he knew it wouldn’t be fair to keep her after that much time, he’d grown incredibly used to someone else running his life for him and he wasn’t quite ready to give it up. Since, he reasoned, she’d seem ecstatic when he’d asked, he was going to put his guilt away for a little while.

On Monday, Harry threw on his best casual shirt and an old pair of jeans he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the only ones he owned now that had cost him less than a hundred pounds, and took a deep breath before taking a taxi to the shop.

His attitude was not at all necessary. The only person he found there was the mild and blushing Audrey who explained that Al was the manager that day and would be in by ten. Harry didn’t even bother asking where Abe and Draco were because he didn’t really want to know. He let Audrey tour him around the shop, smiling slightly as she ‘trained’ him on things that likely hadn’t changed since Edward Holden and his sons had sold pianos in the old building. After about an hour, with no customers, Harry looked around and stopped her with a gentle hand.   
  
“Audrey, are there usually no customers for this long?”    
  
She shrugged. “It’s early. I don’t know why we open this early, to be honest with you…”   
  
He chuckled at her. That same argument had come out of Abe’s mouth so many times that Audrey almost sounded like him. 

“Well, I can assure you that you can ignore me. I’ll go accept the shipment that came in too late Friday for anyone to even touch it.”    
  
Now it was Audrey’s turn to laugh. “I keep forgetting this isn’t actually your first day. Well. Okay. But if Al yells, I’m throwing you right under the bus.”    
  
“I’d expect nothing less.”    
  
“Holler if you need anything.” 

For the rest of the week, he settled into a dull routine of doing exactly the same five things. He got in a cab at nine each morning, stocked or faced shelves, argued with Al, ate lunch with Audrey, went home at four; ate a sad dinner in front of the TV; called Gloria to update her on his lack of excitement that day, and then restlessly fall asleep wondering where on earth Draco was and what he was doing and if he should call him.

Finally, on the following Sunday, Draco waltzed in, light like a breeze and grinning from ear to ear. It instantly made Harry furious to see him so carefree. He’d been agonizing all week, dealing with an unrequested kiss and the most intense feels of  _ want _ he’d ever experienced.    
  
In another time, he’d have confronted Draco directly. In another time, he’d probably actually have pinned Draco up against the nearest door and demanded answers. Today, his anger seeped silently into his shoes and he avoided Draco instead. This was no easy feat in the tiny shop, but Harry was nothing if not determined. He let Draco skulk around requesting things from Audrey and updating books and generally pretending he wasn’t only there to see Harry. It worked for about fifteen minutes before Draco inevitably cornered him in the back room. 

“Aren’t you curious where I’ve been?” were the first words he chose to say, dragging colour and fury high into Harry’s cheeks.   
  
“Not particularly,” Harry growled, pushing past him to get to the box he’d come in here for.   
  
“Did Audrey tell you that Abe owns the shop now?” Draco asked in the same light happy tone. 

“She might have mentioned.”   
  
“What pooped in your cheerios this morning?” Draco teased, grinning from ear to ear.    
  
Harry just glared at him. 

“Oh, goodness,” Draco mocked. “You’re still angry about that one little kiss, aren’t you?”    
  
“ _ One little _ ...you know what, Malfoy? Please just leave me the fuck alone. I’m working.”    
  
“I can’t,” Draco replied with a simple shrug. He was still beaming and Harry was pretty sure he was going to punch him. Soon. “I can’t leave you alone, and we both know it. Which is why you should  _ really  _ ask me where I’ve been.”    
  
Harry crossed his arms and glared some more. Draco laughed at him.  _ Oh yes _ , Harry thought,  _ definitely going to punch him.  _ Draco did not seem to care. He reached into the briefcase that was swung over his shoulder and pulled out a large, over-full legal folder and placed it on top of a boxed drum kit.    
  
“I can see you aren’t currently in a very talkative mood,” Draco said. “I’ll leave this with you, then. Come find me when you’re ready to ask me.”    
  
It took ten minutes; ten minutes of flipping through the paperwork and letters, reading only snippets of the information inside and becoming increasingly convinced that he was confused. He’d become pretty fluent in legalise, but there was no way the information he was taking from the papers Draco had left was correct.   
  
“Explain,” he shouted as soon as he found Draco, who was sitting in the booth with a bottle of polish and an old, second-hand cello they had bought at auction.    
  
“What part?” Draco asked without looking up.    
  
“What...all the parts, Draco!” Harry shouted again, exasperated.    
  
Draco looked up at him appraisingly and set the cello aside gently. “Well,” he considered. “It’s a long story. I need to know where you want me to begin? How much detail? What do you already know?”    
  
Harry took a deep breath, exhaled heavily, and rubbed his temples all at the same time. He hated it so much that he desperately  _ wanted  _ this man. He was fucking infuriating. 

“Let’s just start from the part where there is a summons to appear in court to testify against Lucius Malfoy, who — if I understand correctly — is no longer your father?”    
  
The large, beaming smile returned to Draco’s face. “Nicely summarised, Mr Potter. That’s the long and the short of it. Though, I am technically keeping my name for now. I just denounced my inheritance.”    
  
Harry threw up his hands again. “Yes. That part! WHY?”    
  
“It’s simple, really.” Draco shrugged again and stood up to take the file from Harry. He rifled through it for a moment before handing Harry a piece of paper and leaning against the wall beside him. He was close enough that Harry could smell his aftershave; it was smokey and definitely expensive, sort of like leather but more like wood. It made him slightly dizzy until he forced himself to look back at the paper in front of him. “My father’s only threats against me has always been ‘I’ll disown you if you don’t’, the thinly veiled threat of violence, ‘what are going to do, report me to the police and implicate yourself?' etcetera, etcetera,”   
  
He looked askance at Harry. “You know. That kind of thing. Relatable family stuff.”    
  
Despite his frustration, Harry smirked. Draco took it as a positive sign if his continued grin was any indication. “So, I hired a laywer, denounced my inheritance, and disowned my own god damned self. And then I went directly to the police with the nearly  _ decade  _ long investigation I’ve been conducting on his various businesses that profit from the proceeds of crime, and now he’s been charged with treason. And a variety of other things, but they aren’t nearly as fun to say as ‘treason’.”    
  
“Treason?” Harry repeated, really just as an excuse to turn slightly and lean ever closer into Draco’s space. When Draco mimicked his stance and nodded, Harry’s stomach lurched. But he still had questions. “Treason for…?”   
  
“The man had a ludicrous plan to make enough money that he would overthrow the government and return the old families to their ‘Rightful Place’. The man is insane. But that’s not the important bit. Or at least, that’s not new information.”    
  
“Seems important,” Harry argued.    
  
“That’s because you haven’t asked me where I’ve been,” Draco said slowly, arching an eyebrow and smirking in a way that had Harry’s insides doing a jig.   
  
“Fine,” Harry replied, smirking back. “Where have you been all week, Draco?”    
  
Suddenly, from out of the blue, Draco looked sheepish. “Moving my mother,” he whispered. “And breaking off an engagement. These things took longer than I’d anticipated.”    
  
“Where did you move her?” Harry asked gently, choosing the safer question first.    
  
“To her sister’s, in Leeds. We’d been trying for a year. My father kept...it doesn’t matter. The point is, she’s there now, and safe. And here I am. Penniless, newly single, and standing in front of you wondering why the  _ fuck  _ you haven’t kissed me yet.”    
  
“Penniless?” Harry teased, before reaching out and grabbing Draco by the no doubt very expensive belt. He let the files fall disastrously to the floor. He’d help clean them up later, he guessed, but for the moment, he had other things to worry about.

“You heard me right. Penniless and unattached. I’m ruined.”   
  
Harry smiled, letting everything he had been suppressing come flooding back to him all at once. Years of telling himself he was being silly, that he hadn’t ‘missed out’ on anything by not telling Draco of his crush before he’d left the shop. Forcing himself to realise that he needed to move on. Hour after hour sitting on terrible dates and dating men who only cared that he was famous. It wasn’t fair, the pressure he was about to put on Draco. The pressure to be as much in love with Harry as Harry was with him, after one kiss and zero discussion. But Harry honestly didn’t know how to go backwards now. Not with Draco real and solid, willingly standing in his arms, expectant and holding his breath. 

“Draco,” he whispered directly into his ear. “I’m afraid I’ve been thinking about this for three years and you are going to just have to go along with everything I’ve been imagining.”    
  
“Here?” Draco returned. He was obviously trying to tease, but he was hoarse and the effect was pretty pointless. “Quite the ‘alternate track’ then, hey Potter?”    
  
“Shut it,” Harry replied, biting the shell of Draco’s ear as he pressed into his body fully. “You’re never going to let me live that song down, are you?”    
  
“ _ Never _ is a very long time,” Draco whispered. “Pretty presumptuous.”    
  
Harry pulled back to rest their foreheads together. He’d been thinking about doing that again all week long. “Is it?” he asked. 

He didn’t wait for a reply. It was too hard to wait anymore. He’d been waiting for a week—waiting for so much longer than that—and his heart swelled at the knowledge that, for the first time ever, he and Draco Malfoy had gotten the timing right.    
  


_ Don’t blame it on the moon that pulls your clothes up _

_ Your head or your heart, don’t blame it on love _

_ Just blame it on me (blame it on me)  _

_ \- Blame it on me, Casey Abrams _

 

* * *

Time, as it is wont to do, marched on and in and around the tiny East London neighbourhood where the inappropriately named  _ Holden & Sons  _ sat. Though the shops all around the music store shifted with the wind and rising lease cost, replaced each month with some new box store or enterprising family with big dreams, the music store remained the same. Same 1970s letters on the large blue and red sign, the same tinkling bell hung above the door. Same crotchety old floor manager whose name, people were sure, started with an A but who was too scary to double check. 

The shop was never very busy and occasionally the question of ‘how do they even stay open’ would pop into a conversation in the small community. Rumour had it that the actual building was owned by the shop’s proprietors, purchased decades earlier with the windfall of some big, anonymous lawsuit. Though all the people in the surrounding buildings were too new to remember the details, the shop was innocuous and contained a fair share of regulars who always wandered into the new bakeries and bookstores and craft stores to purchase their wares when they stopped by. Most people were glad the shop managed to survive, so no one gave it much thought. 

Rumour also swirled around the men themselves, though not in the scandalous ways it could have surrounded the two men who made no secret of their relationship. They always left the shop hand in hand, and they may have been married but no one really knew. As old Mrs Wilfred at the Oxfam liked to say, “they’ve belonged to each other as long as I can remember, so what odds is it if the government says they do’. No one cared about that, anyway, so they just nodded along and pretended to agree with her.

Instead, the speculation was that one or both of them had been famous once upon a time. Most people put their money initially on the tall blonde with the aristocratic features and the almost unhealthily skinny frame. He just seemed the type. When those few people who cared enough to Google the names discovered it was, in fact, the shorter, curly-haired, bespectacled brunette with the adorable smirk who had had a brief foray into the public eye, they would smile and nod. They would instantly assert they’d suspected all along. “Just seems like it, is all. Carries himself like he used to be someone,” they would mutter. They’d tout his tragic backstory and cluck about how lovely it was that he’d overcome all of that to really  _ make something of himself. _

At the end of the day, though, it was most important that no one really cared. 

Harry never really stopped his day-to-day management of the shop, with Draco constantly puttering between enjoying the minutiae of ownership for a month or two before flitting off on some other business-acquiring mission that was always successful and yet never held his attention for long. Since they were largely comfortable whether or not the shop remained liquid, Harry bore his intrigues with a bemused sort of attention that never grew weary. Harry only returned to the studio once, to record a limited LP of the song that had brought him his husband, in a roundabout way. No one got to hear it outside of their home, and even then, Harry usually hid it for months at a time. It turned into a sort of game, where Draco would throw the record onto the old player and crank the volume so that it would be blasting when Harry got home, all good intentions and missed chances. They would dance in their terracotta kitchen and smile at the lines about alternate timelines.

Draco made him take two-week vacations every six months, insisting that if finances ever became an issue, they could sell the shop and get real jobs. The finances, confusingly, were never an issue. Between Harry’s inheritance, reparation income (which he largely donated), and the funding that constantly seemed to roll gently in from the residuals of his one and only popular song, they’d have been fine. Add to that the fact that Draco usually owned between one and three of the other businesses on the block, had owned the building since his father had had all his assets ‘donated’ to the companies he’d swindled, and they never really needed to work again. 

It was a strange existence for a kid who’d grown up in a council flat with foster parents. Harry never took it for granted. And the story of how, once upon a time, Potter and Prose had pinned over the star-struck Capulet who’d created him, was only dragged out to embarrass Harry at dinner parties or when Astoria was trying to explain family history to her son, whose blonde hair was the only hint that Draco had had something to do with his existence. 

They were happy. They were in love. All of that remained true as the decades floated past, and in the end, Harry knew that the monumental part of their relationship was not their shared past or their missed connections, or their tenuous connection to notoriety. 

The miraculous thing about Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy was that there was nothing miraculous about them at all. 


End file.
